A Step Too Far
by Brandyllyn
Summary: With the addition of two new professors in Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts, Severus Snape finds himself confronted with a barrage of attention, none of it welcome. SnapeOFC. On semipermanent hold until I do some editing...
1. A Long Year

_WARNING: This fic is rather permanently incomplete until such time as I can rewrite the first six chapters or so. Thought I should warn you given that it's only about a quarter of the way done now and will likely not get finsihed before 2007._

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_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit. _

Warning: Post Order of the Phoenix, and yes, it does contain spoilers. _Also, this will eventually be an M.  
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Chapter 1: A Long Year**

Yet another new year at Hogwarts. Severus Snape, Potions Master extraordinaire, was beginning to dread them. Teaching the minds of the inferior progeny of his peers was bad enough, but Harry Potter was making his classes beyond unbearable. The damn child didn't have the good sense the gods gave a rock, let alone did he have any hope of succeeding once he'd left the coddling presence of the other members of the faculty. _Some higher power must hate you, old boy, for Potter to have gotten an "O" on his OWLs_. He'd hoped to have seen the last of that young man, but alas. At least there was no more Longbottom. Despite his failure to attain an adequate grade on his Potions OWLs to continue into the NEWTs class, that particular young man was still shaping up to be Snape's greatest trial. _Two more years_, he silently repeated his new mantra,_ two more years._

Snape sighed. His inner musings had cost him the beginning of the Headmaster's speech. The standard warnings and welcomes, he was sure, not much else to say, "…as usual, off limits to all students." _What? Oh, he must mean the forbidden forest_. "I'd also like all of you to extend a welcome to this years Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," Snape cast a glance to the far end of the table. He'd made a point a long time ago to distance himself from the imbeciles Dumbledore had been hiring. The new one didn't seem much different. He'd hired another woman. Snape wondered a moment if that was such a good idea. Umbridge had been a ministry sycophant, and this one didn't look like she would shape up much better. She was, however, strikingly beautiful- unlike the toad faced Umbridge- and obviously not ashamed of it. He'd seen less revealing robes on the harlots that frequented Knockturn Alley. She stood at Dumbledore's prompting and tossed back her blonde curls in a gesture that might've appeared negligent, but Severus Snape no longer believed in the innocence of women, "Professor Forasen, please join me in giving her a warm welcome." Snape had yet to give any of the DADA teachers a warm welcome, so rather than breaking with tradition, he refrained from doing so this time.

_Ah, finally time for the food, the only reason to come to these damn dinners_. The few times he'd tried to not come for consecutive nights, Dumbledore had ordered the house elves to quit feeding him. It wasn't worth the trouble to fix anything himself so… "Also," Dumbledore continued and Snape sighed, what now? "I regret to inform you of the passing of Professor Binns."

A murmur went up around the Hall. Wasn't he a ghost, how did a ghost pass? Dumbledore held up his hand for silence, "His hold on this plane is no longer relevant, and he willingly left us. Unfortunately, I had little warning, so until the new professor arrives mid-week, I will be teaching History of Magic," he paused for a moment, then smiled, "Well, enough of an old man's ramblings; Tuck in!"

Snape barely noticed the appearance of the feast. Binns was one of the few teachers he could put up with, the ghost felt no need to fill the silence with needless prattle. Snape growled, not only was he going to have to acclimatise a new DADA teacher, but another as well. It took people at least a fortnight to realise he had no real interest in them, their careers, their family, or - gods forbid- the weather; and that fortnight was very unpleasant for him. Probably for them as well, but that had never made a large difference to his thinking. When the world showed some sign of caring for him, he'd deign to care about the world. Until then…

Suddenly Snape realised the other teachers were giving him questioning looks. They had already known about Professor Binns' departure. After all, they were the staff. He, however, had been away on Order business all summer, so he was the only one shocked. Also the only one who hadn't started eating. He scowled and proceeded into his dinner. _Damn people should keep their damn noses out of his own damn business_.

_My, you're feeling surly this evening_.

He paused a moment to wonder at his mood. Was it simply the fact that once again he had been passed over for the DADA job? No, he'd gotten quite used to that. He knew full and well he was better off in Potions, he didn't have to like it, but he knew it. So why was he suddenly on the verge of resorting to cursing rather than the refined art of sarcasm? He sighed and admitted to himself that he knew full and well why he was in such a god-awful mood; it was the new teacher.

The one thing he hated more than the stupidity of his students was a beautiful woman. The thinly veiled disgust in their eyes when they looked at him, the condescending smile when they were introduced. Laughing behind their hands at him as they mocked his skin, his hair, and his sallow complexion. Oh yes, women were much worse than students. At least the female students feared him, all save a few seventh years who attempted a different tact to gaining a Potions grade. Thankfully he was neither so old, so lecherous, nor so desperate as to feel the need to succumb to the subterfuges of the younger generations.

Snape sighed again. It was going to be a long year.

* * *

At the other end of the great table, Professor Desdemona Forasen feigned interest in the conversation of the little man next to her. Fletching? Flingting? _Flitnick_. Ah yes, Flitnick. Odious little man. You'd think that as a Hogwarts professor he would have some sense of well, common sense. She obviously did not wish to speak with anyone, whatsoever, about anything. _Oh dear, he's got that expectant 'What do you think' look. What the Hell did he just say?_

"I'm sorry Professor, my mind was elsewhere, what was the question?"

"My dear, my dear, it's no problem at all!" the man squeaked in that annoyingly high voice, "I myself have often drifted into my own world, even in class! Why one time, I was teaching the third year Hufflepuff/ Slytherin class and…!" at this point he launched himself into a very long and very boring tale that seemed to have no discernable end in sight.

_Great Gods, I just asked him to repeat a question. No wonder I missed it the first time._ She sighed, Hogwarts was supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime. Hell, Harry Potter went to school here, instead it was shaping up to be very much a bore.

_Oh Merlin, he has that 'I just asked you question' look again, why oh why does he keep bothering me!_

She gave him a small smile indicating that once again, she'd managed not to hear him.

He tittered. Great Gods the man actually tittered. "Perfectly alright my dear! Everyone feels a bit out of sorts when they first arrive!" _Excessive use of exclamations_, she added the latest in a growing list of things that annoyed her. But thankfully, Flitnick, _was that even his name, _turned to the professor on his other side and engaged that poor soul in conversation instead.

She sank back into her seat. A glance around the Great Hall showed that most people were still eating, although one girl at the Gryffindor table was noticeablypreoccupied. _Gryffindor, red hair, freckles_. _Weasley_. _Wonder what's got her so distracted? _

_Gods above Demi, you are actually interested in what is going on in the mind of a student. What on Gæa's green earth has happened to you?_ She pushed the food on her plate a bit; she was here for one reason and one only, she couldn't afford to let small things into her life.

Desdemona sighed. It was going to be a long year.

* * *

"I wish I was still in History of Magic," Ron moaned. 

"Ron," Hermione pointed out, "History of Magic was your least favourite class."

"But 'Mione, Dumbledore's teaching it! Can you imagine…?"

"Well perhaps you shouldn't have dropped it at the first available opportunity. Anyway, he's only teaching it until midweek."

Ron sighed. "You just don't understand."

"You're right, I don't. I was perfectly happy to be in the class with Professor Binns."

"That's cause you're insane Hermione."

Hermione turned to Harry. They were in the common room waiting for the first years to figure out where their rooms were. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry snorted, but didn't reply.

"You alright there mate?" Ron asked tentatively. Ever since the end of fifth year, Harry had been a bit, well, distant. Obviously he was still upset about the death of his godfather, but Ron and Hermione were both desperately trying to draw him back into himself.

"Yeah."

Ron and Hermione shared a long look between them. Ron shrugged, a typical male 'If he doesn't want to talk about it I'm not going to make him' response. Hermione glared at him.

"Harry," she began, "how are you?"

"I'm going to go up to my room," he stood, "Good night."

"Ron," Hermione scolded.

"What?" he was honestly confused.

"You're supposed to be his friend."

"I am." When she didn't let up he felt compelled to point out, "Mione, men just don't talk about things like that."

"And why not?"

Ron shrugged, "We just don't."

Hermione made a noise in her throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. "If he does something and gets himself killed it will be on your head Ron."

"Why me?" Ron's voice was at that particular stage in a young man's life that caused it to rise and fall at its own will. The question had a peculiar effect to it.

Hermione was not the type to laugh at another person's failings, but she had to hide a smile behind her hand at the octaves Ron's voice was desperately trying to put itself through.

Ron just sighed. Girl's minds worked in mysterious ways.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy's head burnt slowly in the fire of the Slytherin common room. The older students feigned deafness, and the younger scurried away so as not to incur either of the Malfoys' displeasure. 

"Tell me again, Draco, two new professors…?"

Draco swallowed hard. His father could be, well, frightening, sometimes. "The new Defence teacher of course, and something's happened to that old coot Binns."

Lucius' face looked pensive for a moment. "Our Lord shares little information. It must be one…" he looked his son in the eye, "One of your new professors is a Death Eater, loyal to our Lord. Find out which one."

"Of course father."

Lucius smiled and Draco shivered. His father was most terrifying when he wasn't trying to be. "That's my son. We have great plans for you…" Lucius let the sentence trail off and disappeared from the grate. And just in time.

"Malfoy."

The word wasn't shouted, but then again, Severus Snape didn't need to shout. He commanded attention through his simple presence.

"Nice conversation?"

Draco nodded, then resolutely followed his head of house into his study.

It was going to be a _very_ long year.


	2. Late Arrival

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

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Chapter Two: Late Arrival **

Scottish autumn. _A crisply warm evening_, she thought to herself as she waited at the Hogsmede train station, _not as bad as I was led to believe though. _She paused_, Is crisply a word? _

Zivra Callistas shrugged and fanned herself with a chocolate frog wrapper. _No where near as bad as Durmstrang_. Her shiver at the thought had nothing to do with the weather.

"Professor," the voice came from behind her and Zivra turned, expecting- well certainly not what she found.

"Mr. Hagrid?" she asked uncertainly.

The man made a sound that might have been a dying weasel. "Got a class."

"Oh." she said, not really knowing what she meant. "Then you are…?"

"Argus Filch, caretaker."

"Pleasure," she might actually have meant it. She might have. She did extend her hand which Filch hesitantly shook. She smiled and followed him out to a carriage, where she paused, dumbstruck.

Filch loaded her trunks into the back of the carriage and waited a moment, then coughed.

She spun, surprised. "I'm sorry but where on earth did you find Thestrals?"

Filch looked at her a long moment, then at the carriage which he had always assumed was drawn by magical means. He shrugged. "That's something you'll have to ask headmaster Dumbledore."

With one last look at the horses, Zivra climbed into the carriage, wondering what other surprises Hogwarts had in store.

* * *

At the High Table, Snape thought that he might commit a wilful act of murder for the first time in nearly sixteen years. And it was, of course, _her_ fault.

Professor Forasen. Desdemona. _Dessie_. He snarled internally. _What a perfectly brainless name for a perfectly brainless woman_. His keen ear caught the next piece of twattle she was attempting to unload on Vector.

"I don't see why we don't release the remaining Death Eaters from Azkaban. They've all served time, and the- You-Know-Who obviously doesn't want them or he'd have had them freed when those others were last year. Certainly they can do _something_ to help us fight You-Know-Who."

"Well," Vector was hesitant, "I can't refute the logic behind your statement, but I don't think-"

That _woman_ cut her off. "Of course it's logical that's why it would work. Logic is the path to-"

"Death and dismemberment in this case."

It wasn't until both the professors turned to him that Snape even realised he had spoken the thought aloud.

"You deign to disagree?"

Snape rolled his eyes. Nothing was worse than a professor with delusions of academia. "If you let the remaining Death Eaters out of Azkaban, they're going to murder and torture anyone they can find on their way to serve the Dark Lord. There will be no 'helping' us. And no help _for_ us either at that point."

"You don't know that for certain."

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater you silly child."

"Silly child?" Desdemona looked down at herself, "I am a full grown woman, and I am certain you have taken note of it. I've seen you do so."

Professor Vector attempted to divert the conversation, but Snape cut her off.

"Your… attributes," the word was drawn out of him, "or lack thereof," he took great pleasure in that one, "are none of my business."

She seemed hurt by his comment and Snape, for some very _very_ odd reason,felt his pleasure melting away. But he soon realised the utter perfection of idiocy that was Desdemona Forasen and regained his equanimity, if not the pleasure the verbal barb had held.

"Good evening _ladies_," Snape growled before leaving the Hall.

_Good going Severus. _He growled to himself. _Once a Death Eater… what does that make you? _Snape prowled down the hallways, lost in his inner turmoil. Out of character, he was oblivious to the students scurrying around corners to avoid him on their way to dinner.

_You're no better than those locked in Azkaban. And you know it. Once a Death Eater, Severus, and you're always a Death Eater…_

_Despite wishing to the contrary._ He amended.

* * *

They were met in the entrance by Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris. Zivra, rather innocently she thought, inquired as to the location of Mr. Norris. She watched in horror as the eyes of the man standing next to her filed with tears.

"I'm sorry," she stammered out, "I didn't realise…"

"No one's ever asked me-" this sentence was punctuated by a loud nose blow into his sleeve, "No one's ever cared-" another blow.

"Argus Filch what on earth is the matter?" this voice came from a rather stern looking witch in the first bloom of the elderly.

"Nothing professor," Filch lied, "I'll just be taking the professor's bags up to her quarters." After giving Zivra a once over, Mrs. Norris followed.

Professor McGonagall took the opportunity to quickly assess the new History of Magic professor. She was young, _younger than you Minerva is not necessarily young_, she corrected herself. Late twenties, early thirties she would guess. Tall, but not overly so. Pretty enough, although she wouldn't be winning any prizes for it. Dark red hair in a braid, _sensible_. Brown robes obviously worn, _but serviceable_, she mentally chided herself. All in all, she seemed a steady type. Here to teach, no more. McGonagall couldn't help but like that.

"You're journey went well I suppose? Good. Would you like to join us for dinner in the Great Hall?"

Zivra had the impression that this wasn't really a question but she was tired, and the trip had- in fact- _not_ gone well; contrary to whatever the professor might believe. "Not really."

McGonagall looked a bit taken aback by this, but hid it quickly. "I'll have a house elf show you to your chambers then," and she was gone.

"Nice chatting with you too Professor," Zivra muttered under her breath as a house elf appeared. She recognised McGonagall from her interview, but she didn't remember her being so… abrupt.

"Lead on," she tersely instructed the house elf who quickly rushed down a hallway and up a set of stairs. Unfortunately, the stairway began to move- as Hogwarts' stairs do- before Zivra could set foot on it. And even more unfortunately, it moved straight up. A direction a bit difficult to catch up to.

"Don't worry Miss!" the house elf frantically called out, his head stuck out from the banister, "Banga will come back to fetch the Professor soon as stairs stop!" His ears had gotten caught on the railings, Zivra noticed in a detached way.

The stairs, on the other hand, apparently had an agenda of their own that did not involve one History of Magic Professor getting any sleep that night. Their journey continued up into the seemingly endless eaves.

"Banga sorry Professor!" the house elf called down, his voice barely audible over the noise of the other staircases making their own journeys, albeit those of the more normal lateral variety. "If Professor would like, entrance to her rooms be in the West Tower, behind …. tap… dra!" the elf's voice had trailed off into the distance.

"The what?" Zivra called upwards.

"Tapestry…"

"Bloody hell," Zivra muttered to herself as the house elf disappeared from sight. "Isn't this just peachy?" She quickly glanced around to insure a student hadn't heard her swearing. Be a sad thing to get fired the first day, especially for so minor an infraction.

"And what, pray tell, are you doing lingering about the halls?"

The voice was cold; made one think of nasty slimy things in dark alleys. Zivra shivered as she turned to the owner.

"Awaiting an epiphany. Et tu, Brutus? What, pray tell, are _you_ doing lurking about the halls?"

The man looked taken aback that she had spoken to him thus and Zivra smiled inwardly. _Score one against the King of Gothic. _

"I happen to be a professor here, a position to which, I dare say, you do not aspire."

Zivra crossed her arms, "Let me guess? You teach Dark Arts?"

Severus Snape curled a lip. "I teach the refined art of potions. And here at Hogwarts, we teach Defence _Against_ the Dark Arts."

"A pleasure to meet you professor," Zivra extended her hand, which Snape pointedly didn't take. "I aspire to fill the position of History of Magic professor," she smirked, "although some have their doubts as to my quality it seems."

For the first time in a long while, Snape was struck speechless. This _person_ had presumed to verbally tease him. And if that wasn't bad enough, for the life of him, he couldn't think of a single thing to say in reply.

Zivra took a moment to register this man. He looked- well, to put it nicely, he looked like about eighty percent of the students who went to Durmstrang- as though his only goal in life was to master the Dark Arts.

"You don't happen to know where the West Tower is do you?" she said, as a bit of an icebreaker.

Snape was taken aback when she spoke, but quickly grimaced as he realised he would have to escort this woman to her rooms. "This way," he practically snarled at her. As he led the way, he couldn't help but mentally chide himself, _This is what you get for letting _her_ goad you into leaving dinner early._

Zivra quickened her pace to follow the man. What he lacked in… well, seemingly everything, he certainly made up for in speed. It wasn't long before her breathing had become a bit laboured in her efforts to keep up with him. It was to both of their immense shocks when she touched him.

To say she touched him might be misleading, perhaps better would be to say that when he stopped in the middle of the hallway, she collided with him in such a way as to cause her land flatly on her bottom. He, of course, was unaffected.

"If I remember correctly, your rooms are behind a tapestry of that seer, the one no one ever believed…"

"Cassandra. And she was a prophet, not a seer," she replied offhandedly. At his startled looks she chuckled, "It's not that uncommon of a knowledge and I _am_ a History of Magic professor."

"We'll see," came his cryptic response as he began scanning the tapestries and paintings, trying to remember where on the hallway it was.

"Professor?" When he spared her a glance she continued, "How is it you know where my rooms are located?"

She probably hadn't meant it to, but the words were laced with innuendo that Snape did not appreciate. Especially after the dinner he had just spent. "There are only one set of rooms in the west tower suitable for permanent residence. You were given residence, weren't you?" she seemed offended at his insinuation that she would not be staying long. It felt surprisingly good to insult her. Snape made a mental note to do so more often.

He located the tapestry and gave it the password that would in an emergency open any tapestry, portrait, or door on Hogwarts ground. Of course, he insured that she did not hear it as that particular password was only given to the headmaster, deputy headmaster, and the heads of houses.

"If you say 'a new start', the tapestry will accept a password of your own choosing, I suggest you do so now as I will not always be present to open your door for you."

Although his tone implied he thought her of less than able intelligence, she simply smiled at him. "A new start," she chimed and watched as Cassandra lifted her head. She didn't look happy, but then again, to predict the fall of Troy and have no one believe you must be the downer of a millennia.

"And what is your key sister?" the prophet questioned.

Watching the professor in her peripheral vision, she took great pleasure in her choice. "Alihotsy." _Now see if he thinks I'm too incompetent to teach. _

The professor, with a curl to his lip, turned to stalk away.

"Your name sir!" she called after him. A bit put out that he didn't question her password.

"Severus Snape," he didn't even turn, and so missed the stunned look that crossed her face.

"Oh dear," she breathed softly. "Isn't _that_ interesting?"

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A/N: Alihotsy: a magical flora, the ingestion of the leaves causes hysteria; just my guess, but probably a pretty hefty potion ingredient as well _(Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them)


	3. Classes

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

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Chapter Three: Classes **

Hermione was ready to admit it, she was impressed.

Alright, any witch or wizard could easily have unpacked a classroom overnight, but the sheer number of items in the classroom nearly took her breath away. When Professor Binns had been teaching, the room had boasted desks and one lone chalkboard mounted into the wall. Now, the desks were arranged in a square facing inwards and there were at least five chalkboards floating around. The room had always been large, twenty foot ceilings and at least thirty feet square. Now, from the ceiling and definitely out of reach, suspended an assortment of relics that Hermione could only describe as priceless.

Ancient shaman costumes, suits of armour from the Goblin Wars, Egyptian stiles, Norse statues, pagan artefacts from at least five continents, no fewer than seven swords; and that was just what she recognised.

And dear goddess, the _books_!

Every wall was covered from floor to ceiling with bookcases. And every one was full. Hermione's feet moved without her knowledge and she saw her hands reaching for a book titled _Grimorum Arcanorum_. It wouldn't budge from its spot. _Charmed against theft_, she thought to herself, _considering it's at least a thousand years old, probably not a bad idea. _

She heard someone clear their throat behind her and turned to see a woman smiling at her.

"Admiring my library?"

Hermione nodded, "Are they all yours?"

The woman, presumably the new professor nodded in reply, "It was a family collection, but they're mine now." She gestured for Hermione to sit and she did so with a sigh of regret. _To be that close to that many books all the time…_

"Good morning," the woman stood in the center of the room, seemingly unperturbed to be surrounded by her students, "I apologise for arriving a week into term, but I don't think it will slow us down. I am Professor Callistas, and this is advanced History of Magic. If you are here, it means that you fully intend to take the NEWT next year. If you do not, I'm afraid that I must ask you to leave," she gestured towards the door, but no one moved.

"I'm glad we're all in agreement." She held up a hand, "_Conclavo_," and one of the objects suspended from the ceiling floated down to her. "No," she smiled, "that won't work for you, they're charmed so that only I can call them down." She balanced the object in the palm of her hand, "Who knows that this is?"

Nearly twenty sets of eyes from four houses turned to Hermione, but she shrugged.

Professor Callistas turned to show the object to everyone, "Not one of my sixth year students knows what this is? What if I told you it was an orb of awakening?"

Several hands shot into the air, including Hermione's. She was disappointed when the Professor called on Ernie McMillan and motioned him to stand. "It's a people trap," the boy answered, "Anyone can use it, but only the owner or a descendent of the owner can release them, and it only holds one person at a time."

"Very good, you can sit, five points to Hufflepuff. This particular orb is known as _Il Conclavo_, ring any bells?" When no one responded she smiled, "Alright, you have your first bit of homework. As much information as you can find on both the meaning _Il Conclavo_, and why this particular orb would be named it." She raised her hand in a throwing motion and the orb floated up to its spot. She called down another object, this time one of the swords. She turned it so that everyone could see that it had a core of something besides steel running from hilt to tip. "Same game."

Hermione's hand shot up but she needn't have bothered, hers was the only one. When she was called on she stood without prompting, "It's a war wand." The Professor nodded for her to continue, so she did. "Their first uses are recorded during the Crusades. As near as can be told, Hugh de Payens- the founder of the Knights Templar- was the first wizard to imbed a wand in a sword. Supposedly, the steel gives hexes, curses, and defensive spells added power, but it's really no good for simple everyday kinds of things. The spells used to imbed the wand make the magic unstable and they simply pose too much of a danger to the wielder to make them useful outside of battle."

Professor Callistas walked over to where Hermione was standing. "Impressive, fifteen points to Gryffindor." She held up the sword hilt first and asked Hermione to read it.

"_Keyestone_."

"This and that," she pointed towards the orb with the sword, "are connected. Fifty points to each house that has a member make the connection." She sent the sword back up to its place.

"Alright, now the purpose of that little exercise is simple. I know more than you do. There is absolutely no question about that. Although some of you might outstrip me in specific subjects, I easily surpass the sum total of all _your_ knowledge about History of Magic. I've taught at Durmstrang for the past seven years, I know how students behave, and I will punish each and every one of you accordingly. I don't want there to be a doubt in your mind that this," she gestured, "is _my_ classroom, and from the time you walk trough that door, to the time I decide to release you- you belong to me."

She smirked at the stunned looks on their faces, "Any questions, comments?"

* * *

Harry blinked in surprise when he entered the Defence classroom that day. For the past week, they had been taking tests to see what subjects they had actually covered in the previous five years- as someone had obviously informed Professor Forasen about the lack of stability in her job. _As if passing the OWLs wasn't enough for her_, he grumbled internally, but went to stand next to Ron and Hermione. Standing because all the desks had disappeared. In the front of the room was a platform, maybe five feet off the ground and spanning the length of the room- maybe twenty feet. On the walls were a collection of weapons varying from wands and stakes, to a heraldic shield and sword.

"There's a cushioning charm on the floor," Hermione pointed out and Harry bounced a few times on the balls of his feet before agreeing. It wasn't much of a cushion, but it was definitely there.

"I wonder-" Ron began but was cut off by the entrance of the professor.

She wasn't wearing any robes.

Not that she was naked, Merlin no, but what she was wearing was skintight, black, and possibly made of leather; pants, a vest, and wrist guards that laced up to her elbows. Harry wondered if his drooling was as noticeable as Crabbe's was. She walked to the front of the room and with a feline-like grace, hoisted herself onto the platform.

Forasen began to pace along the platform. "I must admit that I'm impressed you passed your Defence OWLs with such an abysmal knowledge of the theory behind the magic involved," she paused, "Wands away, and put your bags along the back wall." She ignored the mumbled protests. When they had returned she gestured, "Please sit." As one, every boy to the room dropped. The girls took a little longer to arrange themselves.

"Alright, first off, someone tell me- what sets a witch or wizard apart from Muggles?" Nearly every hand went up. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh brother," Ron groaned under his breath, "This could take forever."

"We wizards are much more advanced than Muggles," he smirked.

"Not the answer I was looking for, but true in its own way." She called on Dean this time.

"We go to special schools for training to be a wizard, Muggles don't need to go to school to be Muggles."

"Closer, but still not what I'm searching for." She looked lost. Apparently she had thought this was a very easy question.

It was Hermione who found the right answer, and she did it with a sigh that spoke volumes about what she thought of everyone else's answers. "We do magic."

"Five points to Gryffindor." Professor Forasen smiled in relief, "Magic is what sets us apart from the rest of the world. Each and every one of you was born with a spark that means that you have an inherent ability to tap into the magic that surrounds us. And your use of this magic defines who you will become as a person." She held out a hand and a ball of incandescent light appeared. It wasn't large, maybe a ping-pong ball in size, but what caused the students to gasp was that she did it without her wand.

"Any witch or wizard is capable of performing some measure of wandless magic." Idly, she created another ball with her other hand, "Your inherent power determines how much magic you can do without your wand." She created another and began to juggle them, "The great witches and wizards in history could perform almost any spell using only their inherent magical powers." She threw one of the balls away and continued to toss the other two, "However, it requires a great deal of physical energy and more often than not, it's infinitely simpler to use one's wand as a conduit." She tossed away another ball and was left with one, "Mr. Finnegan," Seamus stood up quickly, "Catch." Seamus recoiled when the ball hit him and flinched. Obviously the light had hurt a bit, and it was gone now.

"I apologise, ten points to Gryffindor for being my guinea pig." She motioned him to sit. "We will begin today with the formation of an orb, the easiest wandless magic to do. Please make sure that you're comfortable, this takes a lot of concentration your first time."

For the remainder of the class, Harry sat with his hands stacked face up in front of him, trying to draw his magic from within. After two hours, he had a small glowing marble that shifted in size as he watched it. He wasn't the only one, but by no means had everyone succeeded. Neville had somehow managed to make his entire body glow from within. Professor Forasen was whispering in his ear, and miracle of miracles, whatever she was saying seemed to be working.

When it came time to end class, Professor Forasen once again hoisted herself onto the platform. "Your first homework is practice; I expect every one of you to have something to show me next class. Your second piece is two feet of scroll on the benefits and disadvantages of wandless magic, as well as a complete summary of the difference between it and wand magic. You're dismissed."

Anyone who might have thought of groaning about the assignment was too caught up in the idea of wandless magic to really complain.

* * *

Zivra sat at the High Table with a look on her face that spoke volumes about how much she wanted to be there. Actually, with the exception of the very small man whose name she was pretty sure she had not yet been given and Headmaster Dumbledore, not one professor had an expression that spoke of gleeful anticipation. Perhaps Hogwarts wasn't so different after all. Zivra personally couldn't think of anything less exciting than eating dinner and trying to hold an adult conversation over the noise of five hundred screaming teenagers. It was obvious her colleagues couldn't as well. _I'm supposed to do this every night? _She thought to herself, _And to think I thought Durmstrang's code of silence was a bit much._

She scoped out the High Table. Down a few seats on her left were professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore, and past them was Severus Snape. He of the refined art of Potions. Beyond him, a buxom blonde was making an obvious effort to engage his attention. _Lucky man_, she thought. Although he looked less than happy about the situation. She didn't recognise anybody else. _Well, tomorrow's a staff meeting, I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to rub shoulders there_. She nearly shuddered at the thought.

She glanced at the people closer to her. One was a centaur. He was at the end of the table, and seemed to be having some sort of religious experience. She certainly _hoped_ it wasn't the garlic rolls that were making his eyes roll back in his head like that.

She turned instead to the massive amount of man sitting to her left. As she did, he turned from the woman next to him to give her a broad grin.

"So how was your first day Professor Callistas? Me first years were nearly in awe of you."

Zivra smiled, she _liked_ him. "It went well. Hogwarts is a lot more laid back about things than Durmstrang was, but I think I'm adjusting nicely Professor…?"

"Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid, but e'ryone here just calls me Hagrid."

"Even your students?" she raised an eyebrow.

He looked taken aback. "Um, well… yeah. Somethin' wrong with that, Professor?"

"There's no problem, I was just curious. And please call me Zivra."

"Glad to have you here Zivra."

"I'm glad to be here." _Give me a few days to adjust, and I just might mean that_.

* * *

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh_. Desdemona was trying, honestly she was. But he was making it so damn _easy_. All she had to do was flutter her lashes and say some supremely brainless bit of twattle and his whole face would contort into a mask of displeasure that would be terribly unattractive if it wasn't so damned _funny_.

_Severus Snape, I hold you in the palm of my hand_, she silently chuckled.

Although it was a bit unnerving that anyone could think she was really quite so devoid of thought.

"I always thought Potions made a great hobby for someone without a _real_ job." She watched his jaw clench. That one had struck home. She wondered idly what he'd think of her degree in Potions. She did consider it more of a hobby for herself; Potions had never held the level of excitement required to keep her attention for long. Too much stirring and waiting and stirring and waiting and…

_Was that vein actually _throbbing

She choked back another entirely inappropriate laugh.

_If you're gonna dig a hole_… "Although teaching is a very _kind_ thing to do, to make sure the students' education is well-rounded, even in an area so outdated." .. _might as well make it a deep one. _

"Professor Forasen," he turned to her. She silently congratulated herself on provoking a response out of him.

"Please call me Dessie." She fluttered some more.

"Professor Forasen," he stressed her name this time, "I am not sure when I gave you the impression that your opinion was not only welcome but desired. Rest assured that it is neither."

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Please, don't."

Dessie chuckled to herself. Maybe the year wasn't going to be so boring after all.


	4. Things Could Be Worse

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Four: Things Could Be Worse **

_Oh joy, a staff meeting_.

Snape growled in the back of his throat. It accomplished absolutely nothing to get him out his predicament, but it made him a feel a little better.

At least that _woman_ had been cornered by Professor Sprout about something she had said to her third years. _Merlin, one night of peace at least_, then he noticed the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes when they met his own.

_That's never a good sign_.

However, the staff meeting went as well as could have been expected. He kept his sunken position and his glower ready should anyone make the mistake of attempting to ask his opinion on any of the myriad of trivial problems that seemed to permeate the school on a regular basis. He also refrained from volunteering himself for any function that was mentioned. _I should volunteer just to watch Minerva's face screw up in distaste and abject confusion_, he thought fondly. Minerva McGonagall was one of the few people he held a minor passing fondness for. When the meeting was adjourned by Dumbledore, Snape nearly leapt to be the first from the room.

"Ah Severus, glad I caught you." Dumbledore looked a little winded from racing to beat him to the door. "Might I have a moment?"

Snape grudgingly nodded as he watched the file of the other professors leaving the lounge. _Lucky bastards_.

"I've been told you've had a chance to get to know our newest Professor." Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"She is ill-mannered, ill-tempered, and inane," he snapped. While he might carry Dumbledore in the utmost respect, that did not extend to his bullying his way into Snape's private thoughts; especially when the questioning of such thoughts took place when Snape wanted nothing more than to return to his quarters to take care of the headache he just _knew_ was coming.

"Really?" Dumbledore raised a bushy eyebrow, "I know Zivra is many things but ill-mannered? Ill-tempered even?"

"Who?" Snape was genuinely confused.

"Why Zivra Callistas, our new History of Magic Professor."

Snape was taken aback. "I met the chit once and it was a brief and uneventful."

"Pity." Dumbledore shrugged, "That will be remedied soon, providing you do agree to do me a small favour."

Snape sighed and raised one long-fingered hand to rub his temple. He could feel the beginnings of a stress headache. _Just once, couldn't I be _wrong_ about something? _"And what, Headmaster, might that favour be?"

The staff lounge had been vacated by this point and Dumbledore motioned to a pair of chairs. "Please Severus, have a seat."

_And to think I almost got away. _

* * *

Zivra paced her quarters, avoiding waist high stacks of books. She knew better than to risk knocking over one. While books gave way, footstools and chairs did not; and she hadn't spotted either since she moved in. It was really amazing the amount of mess that could be made if one put one's mind to it. At least she still knew where her couch was. Well, she was pretty sure it was over there somewhere.

She sighed and sat at her worktable. It was covered with parchment, but at least sitting down there only required the movement of three diaries and a treatise on Ugandan agricultural policy. Unlike her couch which contained a multitude of very heavy tomes- amongst other things. If she were someone else, she would say she had too many books. _But one can never have too many books_, she silently amended.

She had to admit, she liked her quarters. They were spacious, if noticeably lacking in bookshelves. She studied the wall opposite her and contemplated how best to add shelving to it. _Perhaps the house elves know of some- _

She buried her face in hands. Now she knew she was losing her mind. She _hated_ waiting. Actually, she hated waiting for someone else to decide her future. In point of fact, under normal circumstances she was said to possess a nearly infinite amount of patience. But this waiting on Dumbledore to dictate her livelihood was about to drive her mad.

"Argh!" She pushed herself away from the table and continued her pacing, ignoring the chair as it landed and on a knee-high stack of trial records from the Inquisition. They, however, did not fall; and continued to blithely support the weight of the heavy wooden chair despite the fact that Zivra was currently thinking about smashing the whole lot of them just to hear the satisfying sound she was sure they would make.

_What is taking so long? _

She checked the clock mounted on the wall. It had been exactly two minutes since the staff-meeting had ended.

_Okay, so maybe 'long' is an overstatement. _

* * *

"Severus, I have asked many things of you in the time you have been working for me." When Snape didn't reply, Dumbledore went on. "Professor Callistas had the misfortune of a run-in with a runespoor some year ago. Are you familiar with it?"

"Of course," he nearly sneered, then remembered his company, "it was once a favoured pet for Death Eaters." He paused then began a mini-lecture, "The runespoor is a three headed snake whose individual branches act independently of one another. Each head possesses a different personality: the planner, the dreamer, and the critic. The critic, I believe, is deadly. The skin from a runespoor is useful in certain potions while the-"

"Very good Severus," Dumbledore interrupted him. "And you are right, it is the critic that is deadly, and it is the critic that Professor Callistas had the misfortune of being bitten by. I was hoping you might be able to help her find an antidote, or at least a solution to the ailments that plague her as a result."

"That is unfortunate for her, but the runespoor's venom is fatal in all cases."

"And yet the young lady lives."

Snape didn't dwell on it. "Obviously it was not the critic head of the runespoor that bit her. In which case, she'll be fine, the others two are non- venomous."

"Are you always so quick to jump to conclusions Severus? I must say, it does not become you." Dumbledore sat back in his chair, "Humour an old man, of all the potions Masters you know of, which are capable of concocting such an antidote?"

Snape shrugged one shoulder, "I could count them on one hand and include myself."

"And do you include Alchemedes in this count?"

"Alchemedes is dead."

"He was also Zivra's father."

Snape pondered that for a moment. "If anyone could have brewed such a thing, it would have been him."

"Yes, well, despite the man's considerable talents, the potion was brewed in haste and was not a permanent cure, but one meant to stave off the effects of the poison."

Snape couldn't help but be impressed. The runespoor was an extremely poisonous snake and he was quite certain no one had even tried an antidote in centuries. To have done so while his daughter lay ill, probably the course of less than eight hours if he was using other herbs to ward of the sickness; was an accomplishment of note

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore interrupted his thoughts, "as you said, he is dead; and his daughter is becoming ever more rapidly immune to the properties of her antidote."

"And so you want me to find a cure for runespoor? Something no wizard in history has been able to do."

"Except Alchemedes."

"If it's not permanent, it doesn't count." Snape did sneer this time. "Headmaster, are you certain-?"

"Severus Snape, in the more than twenty years I have known you, I have never known you to back down from a challenge. Was I wrong?"

* * *

Zivra cursed as she did exactly what she had been avoiding. A navy blue footstool with silver embroidery tipped precariously and the uppermost books slid off onto the floor. She steadied the stool with one hand while holding her shin with the other.

"Bloody furniture."

According to the clock it had now been more than fifteen minutes since the staff meeting had ended. In her widest estimation, Dumbledore should have still been done explaining her problem by now.

_Professor Snape is probably balking at undertaking such a chore. _She could only imagine the dread that must go into being asked to do something no one had ever been able to adequately accomplish. She said a quick prayer under her breath for her father's forgiveness for such a thought.

In mounting frustration she lashed out with a kick. But instead of the gratification this should have brought, she grabbed her foot in pain and hopped around the room instead. _Silly girl,_ she scolded_, you know better than to attack tax law_.

Suddenly, Dumbledore's head appeared in her fireplace. She stopped hopping. "Please tell me it's good news."

Dumbledore smiled. "Professor Snape awaits you in his private lab. It's behind the portrait of Ulric the Smelly."

Zivra chuckled at the thought of the dour Professor Snape being housed behind a portrait of Ulirc the Smelly. _A goblin leader of the Middle Ages, Ulric-_

Zivra cut herself off. She was not in class and had no need to lecture herself.

"Thank you Headmaster, if there's anything-"

"Don't worry yourself, I could not have done anything but help you."

She smiled. "Thank you anyway. Where exactly is the portrait of Ulric the Smelly?"

"I've sent Dobby up to show you the way."

She nodded as his head disappeared.

A moment later, Dobby the house elf appeared in her chambers and horror of all horrors, he was wearing _clothes_.

She contained herself. "Dobby is it?"

"Yes Professor."

She gritted her teeth against the questions she had. She could always find out later. However, she was going to find answers if she had to murder him to do it. A freed house elf was an abomination against the workings of the entire wizarding world.

"Lead on," she snapped. Dobby leapt to obey.

The elf could only lead her as far as the hallway the portrait was on. She could understand not being able to memorise every portrait in Hogwarts, but then again it _was_ his job.

It didn't matter, Zivra wasn't a History professor for nothing and found Ulric in short order. He really was ugly. Goblins weren't much to look at to begin with, but Ulric gave new meaning to heinous.

"Would you please tell Professor Snape that I'm here?"

Ulric sneered at her and continued to disembowel some poor goat that was perpetually caught in his painting. She suppressed her gag instinct.

_A guardian portrait to suit the man._

She pondered the problem for a moment then settled on a different tack. Snarling, she spit out, "_Eghlihk vagh braughnena, Uklrack._"

Ulric looked profoundly surprised not only that she spoke Goblin, but also that she knew his true name. He smiled at her in grudging admiration. "_Umrack, carnaran._"

She took the insult as the compliment it was meant to be and waited for Ulric to return. When he did it was to leer at her and swing open, exposing a simple wooden door. She held her breath and turned the handle. She hesitated a moment which was obviously one moment more than Professor Snape was willing to give her.

"Either enter or leave, but don't dawdle in the doorway."

_

* * *

_

_A/N: Information about the runespoor can be found in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, as well as the "Harry Potter Lexicon" online database. _


	5. But Not Much

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit.  
_

**

* * *

Chapter Five: …But Not Much **

Snape lifted his head from his perusal of the texts in front of him. It was late, he was tired, and he had no time to coddle this child.

"Either enter or leave, but don't dawdle in the doorway," he snapped lifting his head enough to watch her enter.

He reluctantly revised his 'child'. She was obviously his age or only a little younger and had the lines of strain and stress to prove it. No, not a child, a woman full grown. He hadn't bothered noticing the last time he had seen her. Perhaps this would not be _as_ aggravating as he had believed.

"The Headmaster has said you agreed to help me, I thank you for it." For an opening line, he supposed it didn't rank half bad. Yet he fully intended to take the upper hand quickly.

"I don't need your thanks and I-"

She spoke over him. No one _ever_ spoke over him, "But I would like to add my doubts that you are capable of duplicating my father's work- nevertheless surpassing it. However, duty forces that I thank you for agreeing to try."

Snape held his temper by a thread no wider than a strand of hair. "Your confidence is heart-warming," he sneered.

She shrugged, obviously uncaring, and walked over to place a vial and a notebook on the table in front of him.

"What are these?" he raised an eyebrow.

"My father's notes and the current form of my antidote. I thought you might wish to study those before we waste time sitting here together with information you could be gaining on your own." He thought he detected a smile lurking on the corners of her mouth and was surprised to find one lurking on his as well. As much as a smile has ever thought of lurking on the corners of Severus Snape's mouth anyway. He quickly suppressed such an abnormal instinct.

"While I appreciate the sentiment that will keep you out of my laboratory, I will need to question you on things from time to time. And of course testing will have to be done if I am to find a worthwhile cure." The emphasis he placed in 'testing' was not pleasant and he knew it.

"I thought as much. Both I and my library, which includes my father's works as well as my family collection, are at your disposal."

"Your family collection?" He met her eyes. "The Callistas line is unknown to me."

"I speak of family from farther back than this generation. The de'Marlenia line is an old one, if no longer grand." she paused thoughtfully, "My collection is, for the most part, exhaustive."

The name tickled the back of Snape's brain but he shoved it aside for the moment, her boast needed more immediate attention. "Exhaustive?" he sneered with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow, "Then perhaps you could lend me the _Diaries of Wyvernbird_?"

"Lord or Lady Wyvernbird?"

"_Acclimating and assimilating noncombustive Magicks_?" he snapped.

"First or second edition?"

"_St George's Almanac_?"

"In my classroom."

"_Compelling the Senses and Befuddling the Mind_?"

"Every girl needs one."

Snape grudgingly admitted to being the slightest bit impressed. He didn't have any of the texts he mentioned other than the _Diaries_, which were a gift from Minerva he'd never admit to having enjoyed.

"Perhaps if I find myself at a loose end I will avail myself to your… collection." Snape sighed in regret at what he was about to say next. "Seeing as how we will be- _working_- together, I have changed the password for entrance to this lab, feel free to enter as you need to. But do _not_ touch anything!" he quickly amended.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He grimaced. When she raised an eyebrow at him he nodded towards his door. "We're done here."

* * *

Zivra smiled to herself in the hallway. _And Round One goes to… Zivra! Ahh, ahh. And the crowd goes wild! _

She was still silently applauding herself when she rounded the corner into another professor.

"I beg your pardon," she said automatically.

"Perhaps you should pay better attention to where you are heading."

Zivra re-evaluated who exactly it was she had run into. A quick scan through her memory said that this was the new Dark Arts professor- something or other Forasen. Forasen certainly didn't have tenure, and neither did she have seniority. Seeing as how they'd run into each _other_, she saw no reason to put up with the attitude she was receiving.

"Perhaps you should do the same. It takes two people to make a collision of this sort," she sneered. She'd just spent five minutes with the sneer master and five minutes was obviously all it took to learn from experience.

The professor crossed her arms over her breast. She opened her mouth to say something, but obviously changed her mind because she dropped her arms and asked instead, "So you're the new History of Magic professor. Good of you to finally show for the term."

_Oh, she wants to play games; I'm up for it_. "I came as quick as I could. Better to arrive a little late than to leave early."

Forasen growled at her, an actual growl. She didn't seem too pleased about the reminder about the volatility of her job. "Of course _ma'am_, I couldn't agree more."

_Age, low blow_. She waved a hand as if to clear an argument, "Think nothing of it, I'm sure you'll grow into your _new_ role with a little more _time_."

With that she swept past the young woman; a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

* * *

Desdemona gritted her teeth as that old hag brushed by her. 

_Hag isn't true and you know it_, she mentally chided.

It didn't matter. She had firmly made up her mind that she did _not_, under any circumstances, like that particular professor. And whether she was an old hag or as young and beautiful as herself, Dessie loathed her.

Okay, she readily admitted that she was a woman of quick judgment. But her judgments had never served her wrong before. She could feel it in her bones that the History of Magic professor was going to be a problem in some way. She just wasn't sure how.

She looked up to find herself in front of a painting of the Salem witch trials. "Ministers of Grace." she muttered half-heartedly and didn't even notice Judge Danforth's acknowledgement of her.

Inside her rooms, she crossed to a set of double doors and opened them to step out onto her balcony overlooking one of Hogwarts many interior courtyards; albeit from a great height. She sighed loudly

_What do people do from going insane around here?_ she wondered idly.

At almost the same moment, an eagle owl, with a full five feet of wingspan, landed on the railing next to her. She reached out for a friendly pat as she untied the message from its leg, but the bird regally flinched from her touch. When she opened it, she immediately knew why.

_Dearest Desdemona, _

_It has been too long, no? _

_We have missed you at Malfoy manor. In fact, had Draco not told us that you were one of his professors this year we might never have found you, again. Twould be a pity, would it not, if you were to yet again disappear. You have obligations to your blood Dessie, the Meliflua line needs you to take your rightful place in it. _

_This parchment is your invitation to a little gathering we will be having here on All Hallow's Eve- in honour of your return to us. Please be sure to bring it with you as the consequences of its misplacement could be most dire. _

_RSVP with Narcissa as soon as possible as we like to know how many to expect to our little revels. _

_Your dearest friend,  
__Lucius Malfoy _

Dessie didn't even notice the owl taking flight into the night. She laid her head against the cool stone of the balustrade. She should have remembered that Narcissa had a son of the right age to attend Hogwarts, and that he was one with the little brat in her Defence classes. She had done everything she could think of to escape from Lucius Malfoy, even changing her last name, and yet he had found her anyway. The man was a demon in his pursuit of her, and Dessie was willing to bet galleons to sickles that the analogy might be literal.

She turned from her balcony to pace her rooms. Ignoring the invitation was out of the question. There was too much implication in it that this would be a gathering of Death Eaters. Or old purebloods. Either way, it was not invitation to ignore. But to decline? That might be even worse.

Lord she hated Lucius Malfoy. Even the Lestranges had garnered less ill-will from her when she had still drifted in those circles. She entertained a fleeting thought of failing his son just for the evil pleasure of it; but suppressed it. She was a professional and would certainly be acting as such.

Across the room and through an open archway, she could here her bed calling to her, to forget the whole thing and get some sleep. Well, maybe not the last part, but it _was_ calling to her.

"Desdemona…. Desdemona…"

She groaned loudly. The lethifold she had had shipped to show her fourth years was loose again.

"God damn it!" she shouted at wit's end, and pulled her wand and growled a Patronus curse. The lethifold folded itself- _folded itself, lethi_fold, she chuckled with just a hint of hysteria- and floated back into its container. This time, she spared no expense on her wards. If it was getting out again, it wasn't going to live to enjoy the experience. Her patience had run out.

As she settled into her bed she could just barely make out her own mummer of "I hate this place," drifting unheeded into the night.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy smiled to himself as he watched his owl's return flight. So little Dessie Meliflua was teaching at Hogwarts. And the Dark Lord had his own servant there. _Coincidences are the dreams fools are made of_, he thought vaguely. He would soon find out where her loyalties lay. 

He harboured no illusions as to the girl's feelings about him, but they were erroneous. There was enough dissension in the ranks of the Death Eaters that a little thing like undying hatred for the Malfoy family would not hinder anything truly important.

The gathering on All Hallow's Eve would be a collection of purebloods, both Death Eater and non, and he would stand above them all- as it was his party. The little luxuries influence and wealth gave had always been good to him.

_People who say power is not everything, obviously don't have any_, he chuckled to himself.

_

* * *

A/N: The books mentioned by Severus are a figment of my imagination- the lethifold is not _(Fantastic Beats and Where to Find Them)


	6. A Man's Heart

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Six: A Man's Heart **

_"My mother always told me there were only two ways to a man's heart: his groin and his stomach. These are simple matters to accomplish and invariably work, she said." _

My mother never met Severus Snape

Desdemona had awoken on a morning nearly a fortnight after receiving the invitation from _dear_ Lucius with new ambition running in her veins. An idea had struck her of something she might do to keep herself from boiling over crazy. Inspiration had come to her in a dream that night, and thinking of it still made her cheeks go red. To keep her sanity she would simply fall back on the one tried and true method for a woman to do so- a woman like her anyway, she amended. She was going to trip Severus Snape into bed and add yet another notch to her bedpost. Some girls might take up a sport, Desdemona had sex; everyone needed a hobby.

Easier said than done unfortunately.

Dessie growled under her breath. That _man_ was absolutely insufferable. Any person of his questionable looks and surly disposition ought to have been overjoyed at the thought of her paying him any attention. And yet, he managed to make her feel as though _she _was the one of questionable looks- and a leper besides.

She'd tried moving her chair an inch or two towards him at breakfast. "Professor Forasen, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't sit quite so close to me."

She'd tried feigning interest in potions, well not _feigning_- she did, after all, have a degree in the subject. "Professor Forasen, kindly keep your prattle to a minimum."

She'd tried leaning forward and speaking in that breathy voice men seemed unable to resist. "Professor Forasen if the air in the Great Hall is truly such that you voice is affected to so great a degree, perhaps you should step outside rather than subjecting the staff to your malady." His eyes hadn't even pretended to slide into her exposed cleavage.

What was _wrong_ with him?

_Well, mother said there were two ways._ She absently lectured a group of first years on simple hexes and curses. _But how do you get to a man's stomach when he has house elves cooking every meal for him? _

She shook herself, if she didn't start concentrating soon some Slytherin or Gryffindor hero was going to…

"_Tarantallegra!_"

Dessie sighed, "Ten points from Gryffindor Mr. Marks."

She was simply going to have to come up with a new plan. She stifled a yawn; her dreams about a certain Potions Master had undermined the chance of any real sleep. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow she would begin the seduction of Severus Snape.

* * *

Draco growled in his throat and a passing second year Hufflepuff scurried into a wall attempting to avoid him. _McGonagall will have a bloody heart attack if you knock that bookcase over,_ he silently chastised. He didn't bother actually saying it. By lunch, everyone in school would know he had chewed some poor Hufflepuff up and down for so minor a transgression as meeting his eyes. That was one of the advantages of being him, he didn't even have to work to make himself a reputation for being nasty- it just came with the territory. 

There were of course a host of disadvantages that came with the territory as well. The moment he had become old enough to work for the Death Eaters, he had found himself used by so many people, it was hard to keep track of his vendettas. But nothing compared to his current situation.

It just wasn't fair. He was caught between a rock and a hard place and he knew it. On one side was his father; pushing him for every scrap of information he could glean from both his friends and his enemies. He still wasn't sure why the news about the new DADA professor had caused such a stir- but he knew better than to ask. Knowing one's place was a hard lesson in the Malfoy family, but one learned early and learned well.

On the other side was Snape, the greasy git. He also wanted to know everything Draco was learning as well as wanting whatever details on whatever plans his father was up to. If Lucius ever found out that his son was working with his number one adversary- and the only adversary too dangerous to kill…

It was a very fine line to walk.

Draco shivered, and not from cold. Failures were sometimes punished by the Dark Lord himself, his father's so-called 'houseguest'. It was supposedly training for when he became a Death Eater, but if doing so involved such punishments on a regular basis, Draco thought he'd be better off elsewhere. Only- where would he go? The wizarding world was the only one he knew and besides, taking the Dark Mark did have its own privileges. He snickered at the thought. _Who'd have thought the old snake to have such a perverted streak in him?_

He smoothed his features into his usual self-satisfied smirk. He had Defence next and now that they had progressed into wards and curses without their wands it took every bit of concentration to keep from being made a fool.

And no Malfoy worth his salt was a fool.

* * *

"What?" Ron nearly shrieked. 

"You have a problem with my teaching practices Mr. Weasely?"

Ron swallowed hard, "No Professor Forasen."

"Good," she said, "because I'm not only pairing you by house, but alphabetically as well." Ron sighed.

Harry shrugged to himself, he was too far back on the alphabet to be paired with Malfoy- more's the pity. Hermione, however, was not too far to avoid being paired with one of his goons.

"Are you going to be alright?" he whispered to her.

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Oh please, I can certainly hold my own against Goyle, you just worry about Pansy. She caught on to this whole wandless magic thing very quickly."

Ron was staring at Blaise Zabini with an expression of utter horror on his face. "He could break me in half," he was whispering

"Ron, muscle has nothing to do with a person's magical ability. Jeez, it's not a wrestling contest." He gave her half a smile but it was on the far side of sincere. Ron knew full and well that he wasn't the quickest learn when it came to this subject. Hermione gave him a reassuring smile and strangely enough, he felt reassured. A little anyway.

"Slytherins," the professor was saying, "you will begin with," _Please say wards, please say wards_, Ron mentally chanted, "hexes." _Damn._ "Gryffindors, prepare to defend yourselves."

Ron groaned. _He's going to kill me._ He frantically attempted to remember what the Professor had said. _Focus Ron! Your emotions are a river, but your will is the bank, controlling and guiding and- _

"Ahh!"

"Mr. Zabini! We are using the _incarcerous _jinx _not_- I hasten to add- the _diffindo_. Ten points from Slytherin and detention tonight with your Head of House." After examining the cut on Ron's arm she added, "And you should count yourself lucky I don't think you misheard on purpose. Do you need to see Madame Pomfrey, it's really only a scratch?" she asked Ron. He shook his head but was rather put out that she didn't show more concern over the wound gaping wide open on his arm, dripping blood and…

"Professor," he gulped, "maybe I do need to…"

"Of course, go on. I trust you will be able to find your way there on your own?" She didn't wait for his answer before returning to the class, "I hope no one else will be making any mistakes? Good. Slytherins, defend yourselves."

Draco shared a grin with Blaise. It was indeed too good an opportunity to miss, what with Weasely standing there like a dumbstruck oaf. It was really unfortunate that Goyle and Parkinson were unable to do something similar with their own adversaries. In fact, they were barely holding their own, even against that _mudblood_.

His own partner had cringed at seeing him. "What the matter Longbottom?" he'd taunted, "Too much of a squib to do anything without your wand?"

Longbottom pulled himself straighter, "G-give it your best shot Malfoy."

Draco grinned, "Don't mind if I do."

By the end of class, Draco had managed to bind pitiful little Longbottom at least a dozen times and only been grazed by one of his casts.

He met Goyle and Crabbe at the back of the room as they collected their bags. "Not even one hit on that mudblood Goyle, I must say I'm disappointed." Goyle lowered his eyes and Crabbe began to smirk before Malfoy turned on him. "Bloody hell Crabbe, you couldn't even touch ­­­Brown, and are those rope burns on your arms?" he sighed, "Some lackeys I have. I hope father has better luck with your parents than I have with you."

He was nearly to the entrance to Slytherin commons when Blaise caught up to them.

"Malfoy," Blaise intoned. His eyes wandered to the two boys flanking him, "Find something to do elsewhere."

Draco bit his tongue at the intentional slight. Every slight and insult by a Slytherin was intentional, it was part of the game they played; and everyone knew that Crabbe and Goyle belonged to him. "Zabini," he acknowledged, wondering idly if the shared grin had been a mistake and he had yielded something he hadn't meant to. Crabbe and Goyle hurried on ahead.

Blaise set a slow pace towards the Slytherin Commons. Draco caught himself before he shivered; given the location of their commons, a shiver would not be taken amiss. And yet… something told him that to reveal anything- even something as innocuous as a shiver- would be greatly regretted.

"I hear you are going home at Christmas," Blaise said suddenly.

Draco hid a smile; for a Slytherin, this was a very clumsy start. "I go home every Christmas," he answered.

Blaise shrugged negligently, apparently lost in thought.

Draco resisted the urge to tell him to come out with it already. He had better things to do than wander the dungeons with someone whom he could not use. The Zabini's were not part of the faction that followed his father and therefore his influence with their son was minimal at best.

Blaise interrupted his thoughts. "Father asked if I would like to visit with you this Christmas as well."

Draco stopped dead in his tracks despite his best efforts not to show a reaction. "He _what_?" The words carried further than he might have wished and a suit of armour turned to regard him in surprise. A curt, "Mind your own bloody business," halted that.

The other boy's face was curiously devoid of emotion after such a startling pronouncement. "Father is planning on spending at least some of this Christmas at Malfoy Manor."

Draco tried to steady his voice. "_Why?_" He could see carefully laid plans, carefully arranged designs evaporating like fog on a noon summer's day.

For the first time Blaise's controlled mask slipped, "You bloody well _know_ why!"

It was as though that flare of temper had restored the careful balance of emotion within Draco. He took a deep breath and with it his sneer fell back into place. "I don't see why you're getting your knickers in a twist Zabini, you knew the summons had to come eventually."

Blaise snorted, not buying Draco's mask of indifference for a moment. "_Eventually_, Draco, is not Christmas of our sixth year. _Eventually _doesn't have less than three months to prepare and _eventually_ doesn't come over a year sooner than any summons I know of."

Draco would never admit it, but he agreed with every point Blaise was making. No one received a summons before they were eighteen; and in most cases, the Dark Lord waited until they were out of Hogwarts. It was just too risky to have a student take the Dark Mark while they were still a student. So why now? Why them? "Has anyone else been invited home for Christmas?" he blurted out. _Some Slytherin you are_, he mentally chided, _a bloody Gryffindor would have more tact. _

Blaise smiled, the little prick, "At least you admit there's a problem. And as far as I know, Adrian Pucey and Dugald Avery from the seventh years are the only others."

Draco tapped a finger thoughtfully to his lower lip. "Two sixth years and two seventh years. All boys. None-" he stopped himself. Despite how helpful Blaise seemed to be, he wasn't about to reveal all of his thoughts.

"None what?"

Draco smiled, "Let me think it through. In the meantime, if you hear anything else, bring it to me immediately."

The other boy opened his mouth to protest but realised that by coming to Draco, he'd made a commitment he might never get out of. Instead, he said petulantly, "I'll think about it."

Draco gave the blank stone wall their password- _Walpurgis_- and waited until Blaise was upstairs before letting his emotions out. What did it matter that the younger Slytherins thought he was mad for laughing hysterically in the middle of the common room? He was taking the Dark Mark in less the three months, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do about it.

Draco laughed till he cried.

* * *

_AN: Dugald Avery is a figment of my own imagination. Anything else you don't recognise comes from the Harry Potter Lexicon. _


	7. Visions of Yesteryear

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Seven: Visions of Yesteryear **

_The sky had dawned grey and dark, suitable for the coming occasion. It was customary to alter the weather to accommodate the funeral of a wizard, but not to have to do so seemed somehow appropriate. To the mourners waiting patiently for the body to be brought up from the grotto it had rested in these last four and forty days- it seemed the world mourned with them. _

_As per wizarding regulation, a member of the government from the country in which he had died was present; in this case the Ugandan Minister of Magic himself attended. The death of so prominent a man required such a gesture on the behalf of any government. In fact, there were twelve other Ministers of Magic- or the equivalent- present. Not a one thought to shield themselves from the water that began to fall from the open sky. To do so would be an ultimate form of disrespect for the man to be buried. In such circumstances, even men of note swallowed their pride. _

_The body of the man was to be cremated in his native Wales, amongst the stone circles ancient wizards had built as a conduit for their powers in the times long before the first wands were invented to take that place. Along the cliff's edge, hundreds of wizards and witches wore the white cassock to show themselves in mourning. Below and on surrounding hills, over a thousand more waited to pay their respects. _

_As one, the mass of people dropped to their knees in a gesture of respect to the man who had touched so many lives. Traditionally, the family of the deceased followed the body towards the pyre. His only surviving blood relative had created quite a ruckus amongst the wizarding world when she had insisted on walking alone, without even her husband for company. A line as old as theirs would have had hundreds of people claiming a relation, all wanting the prestige of being seen as a relation to the body they were about to commit to the four winds. _

_At a prearranged signal, the thirteen Ministers of Magic from around the globe stepped forward to take up the charm that would allow the body to burn despite the torrential downpour. They would stand there until not an ash remained. _

_An aged man in a flowing white beard began the ceremony, which was as always brief. Finished, he stepped back to whisper something in the young woman's ear that caused her to lift her chin even higher as she set fire to the body of her father. _

_As one, the throng gathered to mourn began to chant their final parting words towards the deceased. _

_"Adfletum vestrum mors mortis…" _

_Amongst these thousands of mourners was Severus Snape. _

_Had someone thought to, it might have been remarked that it was odd that a man who had not attended the mourning of his own father would wait for hours to pay momentary respect to a wizard he had never met. Odder indeed, that a corpse could inspire such a gesture from the man who had murdered him. But then again, Severus Snape was nothing if not odd… _

Snape shook himself out of his thoughts. What was in the past was destined to stay there, and there wasn't a damn thing to be done about it. It was not often that he lost himself amongst his memories, but it was never a pleasant occurrence when it happened. The life of a Death Eater implicated too much bloodshed and too much death. He often wondered how some of his associates slept at night.

It didn't matter, that was a part of his life that ruled him no longer.

He rifled through the notes the new History of Magic teacher had given him. He hadn't seen her since that day, nearly a month ago. Idly, he wondered what other treasures she had laying about, to foolish to realise their importance. These notes hinted at things he hadn't even begun to dream of doing.

_"..Although strictly venomous in its living form, Moonwort steeped in the abovementioned serum carries with it the property of selectivity, allowing infected sections of the body to exist separate from the remainder…" _

That was how Alchemedes had done it. Rather than curing the venom of the runespoor- a feat Snape was still of the opinion was impossible- it had sectioned the part of the body bitten away from the rest. But even the strongest barrier must erode with time. His task was to erect another. Not impossible, but he did need to know how much time he had.

He turned towards the clock on his wall, "Professor Callistas," he told it.

* * *

Zivra was making a valiant attempt to clean her quarters. The addition of three more bookcases along her walls had helped, but not significantly. _Huh, I've been looking for this_, she thought idly.

The clock on her wall chimed once. She looked up, "What is it?"

The voice of the Potions Professor filled her room, "Would you be so kind as to come down to the laboratory, I have some questions for you."

Zivra raised one eyebrow, "I will be there shortly." The clock made a dinging sound, showing he had cut it off from his end.

She dusted her hands against the trousers she was wearing. It occurred to her to change into something a little less drab, but she dismissed it. The chances of Severus Snape noticing what she was wearing were slim to none, and there was no other reason to do so.

She was brought up short at the portrait of Ulric the Smelly. "_Eghlihk vagh braughnena, Uklrack_." she said once more. Ulric grinned at her, it was quite frightening actually.

"_Eighu branhk varnish plemerqader._"

"What do you mean not this time?" Zivra asked incredulously.

Ulric grinned some more.

She began to pace. What had Professor Snape said last time? Something about changing his password for her? But to what? Obviously he expected her to just know it.

"Alchemedes?" she ventured.

"_Berghk flangh._"

Zivra raised an eyebrow, "That was uncalled for." She settled a shoulder against the wall next to her.

"Runespoor?"

"Antidote?"

"Wyvernbird?"

"Poison"

"_Venom?_"

"Stupid git!" she finally snapped, losing her temper. How on earth did he expect her to simply read his bloody mind? She wasn't a bloody seer-

Seer? Snape had been there when she chose her own password. He wouldn't be so absurd as to use the same one, but perhaps…

"Cassandra?"

This time, Ulric said something that caused her to make profuse insults against his parentage and his possible biblical relations with livestock. Once done, she settled down to think the problem through. She had a gut feeling she was on the right track, but what else… then she had it.

"Glumbumble?" Ulric slid aside for her. "Blasted man," she murmured under her breath as she stepped through.

"What took you so long?" Snape raised a supercilious eyebrow at her once she entered.

With infinite restraint, Zivra refrained from leaping across the workbench to strangle him. That would be something any barbarian would do. Not she, daughter of a bloodline older than _dirt_. Oh no, not she.

"I was chatting with your portrait, I hope you don't mind," she replied offhandedly instead.

Severus nearly smiled. Her careless manner didn't fool him; especially since he had heard her out in the hallway 'chatting' with his portrait as she had put it. The angry glint in her eye told all kinds of tales.

"Are you feeling dizzy, faint, or overheated?"

"Why Professor Snape, what a thing to suggest," Zivra replied, sitting on a stool across from him.

Snape rolled his eyes, this was colleague of his so he was required to be a bit more polite than he normally might be. "This is not a joking matter Professor Callistas, and I am not required to save your life." Alright, perhaps _polite_ wasn't the right word.

"Yes."

Snape blinked, "Yes what?"

"Yes, I'm starting to feel the effects of the venom including dizziness, faintness and a sensation of heat. I'm also beginning to feel more lethargic. That one's new by the way."

Snape made a few notes, "And your supply of antidote, how often do you take it?"

"Bi-weekly."

Snape stopped writing. He referred to his notes. "These say you should only need the antidote monthly."

Zivra sighed, "When I began, I was only taking it only a monthly basis; recently I've had to begin taking it more regularly simply to stay on my feet."

"Resistance," Snape murmured, scribbling furiously. "When did you switch from monthly to weekly?"

"Over the course of about two months. Six weeks later I was taking it weekly, and a fortnight ago I began taking it twice a week."

"Decreasing at an accelerating rate," Snape murmured, still taking notes. Without warning he stood and crossed the space to stand next to her. "I'm going to perform a _medicus_ charm, where were you bitten?"

Zivra held a hand up between her breasts, over her heart.

Snape was faced with the unpleasant sensation of feeling a blush stealing up his features. He suppressed it, "I need to see the area."

Zivra shrugged, raising her hands to the buttons on her shirt.

"Does it always look like that?"

Zivra snorted and looked down, "No, that's a relatively recent development." The area above her breasts was a mass of black and orange swirls, grisly in nature. They seemed even to pulse with a life of their own.

"_Medicus in fortrum_." Snape said with a swish and a flick. The colours cleared and Snape could see the poison, as well as the barrier Alchemdes had erected around it. What once had been a wall as solid as stone was crumbling. He didn't have a whole lot of time, maybe a month before the antidote quit working; after that, Professor Callistas might have the sum total of twenty-four hours yet to live.

"Well?" she asked him.

"_Finite Incantatum_," Snape said instead. He sat again at his work table. "I'm going to need blood and tissue samples from you every day from the infected area. Simply leave them in here. I will contact you when I have made an advance."

Zivra buttoned her shirt back up and stood to leave. She paused, "Professor Snape, can you do this?"

She never received an answer.

_

* * *

A/N: "Adfletum vestrum mors mortis… (Latin)" Loosely translated (seeing as I don't speak Latin) it means "We weep for your corpse…". _"Medicus in fortrum" _is a spell of my own devising, and moonwort is a figment of my own imagination _


	8. Problems Falling from the Sky

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Eight: Problems Falling from the Sky **

Snape was certain of it now. For some unfathomable reason, that woman was after him. What else was he to think when she actually showed up at the entrance to his quarters with a goddamned _pie_ in her hands?

"The house elves said you had a fondness for chocolate." She had said, proffering the pastry. What else was he to do but take it? The whole incident had come as a bit of a surprise as it was. She had hesitated, but at that point he had found his recently absent personality and closed the door on her.

A pie. A bloody pie. He stared at it with a suspicion usually reserved for his fellow Death Eaters. "_Retegere._" The pie remained unchanged. It didn't mean the thing was safe, simply that she hadn't done anything to it by magical means. No hexes to make his stomach turn upside down, no curses to make his tongue fall out. That still, of course, left poisons of the more mundane variety.

Three hours later with a much put upon confectionary, Snape sat back with a very confused look on his sallow features. Other than an excess of sucrose which could easily be attributed to a sweet tooth- on his table sat a perfectly normal chocolate cream pie. A gift, from a beautiful young woman. Almost against his will, he reached out one long-fingered hand and dipped into the filling. His fingers were to his lips before he could rethink what was sure to be a disastrous mistake- and then he didn't care. His loud groan of pleasure echoed around the laboratory.

"Bloody hell that's good."

The remainder of the pie disappeared within minutes.

As Snape rather contentedly licked the tips of his fingers to remove any trace of the vestiges of chocolate, he thought back to when he had answered his door.

Desdemona- holding a pie… yes, that was odd, but something else was tickling the back of his memory. Her hair had been pulled back… sensible. No jewellery…. What was it that had seemed so out of place? Wearing plain black ro-

Snape sat bolt upright. Although he hadn't noticed, those robes were the _only_ thing she had had on. What had at the time seemed bizarre suddenly seemed almost sinister.

The next day it was with no small amount of trepidation that Severus Snape made his way down to dinner. As usual, Professor Forasen sat next to his chair, but for the first time he took note of what she looked like. Her usual scarlet robes had been traded in for a more austere wine colour, and her hair was piled on top of her head in what seemed a careless manner.

His ego, absent for many years, chose this rather inopportune time to reassert itself.

_She wants you mate, no doubt of that. _

_I beg your pardon? _Severus shot back in mental disbelief as he made his way around the table.

_Look at her, all tarted up. She's after you. _

_Somehow I sincerely doubt that. _

_Really? Then why is she showing up at your quarters in the middle of the night with nothing on but a smile and a pastry? _

Snape glanced at the woman in question beneath lowered brows as he slid into his chair next to her. _I don't know, but I intend to find out. _

* * *

Desdemona hesitated to speak to the man next to her after his rather… abrupt… dismissal of her the night before.

"Did you enjoy the pie?" she asked finally at the end of dinner.

"It was adequate," came his curt reply.

"Adequate." she mumbled under her breath as she looked down at her burnt fingers. It had seemed like cheating to ask the house elves to make the pie, and so she had suffered not only their interference, but her own ineptitude as well. It hadn't helped that she had too much pride to ask Madame Pomfrey to heal burn wounds earned in the line of duty.

"Adequate," she mumbled again, not noticing the half of a smirk that had found its way onto Snape's lips.

She was shocked back to reality when the man in question commented, "Yes, Mr. Filch assures me it met with his tastes-"

She cut him off, "Mr. Filch? You gave it to Mr. Filch?"

Snape raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes I did," he lied without giving the slightest hint at doing so.

"Why you…" she bit out, her knuckles tightening around the cutlery in her hand.

"My dear, I have doubts that taking your completely unjustified anger out on me at the High Table is entirely appropriate." This statement was accompanied by him laying his hand over hers, trapping her wrist to the table.

"I don't," she hissed.

His fingers tightened around her entrapped hand, "And why are you so upset? I'm sure the house elves could care less if I…"

"I made that damn pastry," she snapped, jerking against him.

He didn't budge, "You did?"

"Yes I did, now let go of my or I swear by all that is holy I'll…"

"And what compelled you to produce any type of baked good for me?"

"Momentary insanity," she snapped back.

Snape's smirk became even more apparent as he mulled over this new information. For some reason, this woman wanted to get close to him. And he was old enough, lecherous enough and quite nearly desperate enough to take her up on it. The thought was a sobering one, but only for a moment. Other than her apparent lack of mental capabilities, he could think of no reason not to take her up on her offer. Well, that and his own inherent dislike of people. And of course, there was that other concern. By Draco's telling of it, Lucius believed that either she or Professor Callistas were a Death Eater. If he could either confirm or eliminate Desdemona….

The Great Hall was nearly empty, and so Snape risked being seen friendly with another professor. He leaned in closer to her, close enough to growl in her ear, "It was delicious."

"What was?"

He sat back, releasing her wrist from his grip. "The pie."

Desdemona was left sitting dumbstruck in her chair as Snape made his way from the hall. Then a smile slowly formed its way across her lips.

_His groin or his stomach_. She silently chuckled as she rose to leave as well.

* * *

Something was very, very wrong.

Draco sat in the Slytherin commons, one arm propped negligently on the leg drawn up into the overstuffed chair. His owl had been commandeered by his father to send out invitations for some gathering or other at Malfoy Manor- but that was nothing new. Crabbe and Goyle could be heard playing 'Wand-Potion-Parchment' in the corner- a game made more interesting by the addition of physical violence and both boys unwillingness to choose 'Parchment'. Again, this was nothing new.

What was new was the problem had fallen into his arms this afternoon while he had meandered his way from class. As he had traversed the grand stairwell a painting had grabbed his attention. He looked up in time to see a student- a rather preoccupied student- walk off the end of a set of stairs that was in motion.

The instincts that had earned him the title of prefect took over. "_Impedimenta!_" he had cried, diving across the floor to catch the falling body.

The weight of a small feminine figure settled into his arms, her brown eyes wide with shock.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"What happened?"

"You fell off a bloody staircase that's what happened," he'd snapped, setting her upright, "What's going in your life- in your mind- that you don't notice the end of the bloody stairway?"

"I apologise," she muttered, "I was… never mind. Thank you for catching me." She stared into his eyes for a long moment before shaking her head and hurrying away.

The flames in the fireplace continued to dance as Draco waited for his father to floo over for his newest instructions. While he waited, he ran over his afternoon again and again in his mind. He didn't know what more alarming- that he had actually saved someone's life or that that someone was a Gryffindor.

His father would never forgive him if he found out- and speaking of, here was the Malfoy patriarch now.

* * *

Hermione sat in the Gryffindor commons listening to her two best friends arguing behind her. Next to her, Ginny Weasley sat in pensive silence. They had both been silent on the couch for so long, that when Hermione moved to stretch, both were quite startled to discover the other.

"Jesus Hermione," Ginny breathed, "you scared the crap out of me."

Hermione held a hand to her heart, "Same here."

They shared a smile.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Oh … nothing important. You?"

"Nothing important."

Both knew the other was lying, but both knew better than to push the issue.

Harry and Ron interrupted their reverie by leaping over the back of the couch to sit next to them. "What's going on?" Ron queried, stretching an arm out behind his sister who simply rolled her eyes.

"Nothing," she replied, "and what's up with you guys? Who won?"

"I did," both boys replied at once.

"You did not," Harry pointed out.

"I did too," Ron replied.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, "Do either of you realise you're both wrong?"

"What?" Harry asked with a fair degree of incredulousness.

"You're both wrong."

After sharing a long look between them, both and Harry and Ron replied, "Naw…"

Hermione nodded, "I have a map if you want to check."

"Really?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded.

"It's not in India?"

"No."

"But it is in South America," Ron provided.

Hermione shook her head, "Africa."

"_Africa_?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

At the same time, Ron said, "So all those times Mum was telling me she'd curse me to Timbuktu, she was talking about sending me off to Africa?"

"Yep."

"Cool."

Hermione, Ginny and Harry all laughed at that.

_

* * *

A/N: "Retegere" Latin- to uncover, reveal. _


	9. Nobody's on Nobody's Side

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Nine: Nobody's on Nobody's Side **

Zivra wondered idly if the surly potions master realised what an effect his commandment would have on her. Or how terribly revolting the whole process would be. She stared at the mass of ugly swirls and now crisscrossed scars that marked her chest in the mirror a moment before smiling in whimsical amusement. _Well, I wouldn't shag me now, that's for certain._

Brusquely, her moment of irreverence past, she gathered the two vials in one hand and buttoned the Victorian blouse she wore with the other. Frowning, she shrugged into her standard brown robes and glanced about for her class scarf. It was the first Quidditch game of the season, Gryffindor v Slytherin, and wild hippogriffs could not have kept her away. Safely tucking the vials into a pocket of her robes, mentally chiding herself to be sure and stop by the potion's laboratory later, she spotted the knitted scarf hiding behind one of her newly installed bookcases. Fondly dusting it off, it was a treasured remnant of her own carefree days at Hogwarts- however brief they were, she slung it over her arm as she strode from her quarters.

In the grand foyer, Zivra found herself nearly knocked over by a Gryffindor rushing toward the Quidditch pitch. Raising an eyebrow she eyed the student for a moment before the girl broke the silence.

"Professor Callistas," Hermione intoned, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgement. When Zivra returned the gesture, Hermione hurried to broach the issue on her mind, but was distracted by the scarf hanging on her Professor. "I didn't realise you had gone to Hogwarts."

Zivra motioned for the girl to walk with her out to the stands. Wrapping the length of wool loosely around her neck, after all it was after all nearing the end of October, and spoke to the young Gryffindor next to her. "I was only here for my seventh year, in order to take the NEWTs."

Hermione assimilated the information and filed it away under 'Things to Puzzle Over Later'. Moving on to the real issue, she said "Might I ask you a question Professor?"

"I believe you just did Ms. Granger."

Hermione blushed before continuing on, "I was wondering- I mean Professor McGonagall told me that you have some books that might help me with a project."

"Did she now? And what, pray tell, is the topic of this project?"

"The role Hugh de Payens' work in formulating modern defence theory. It's for my DADA class. I mentioned the assignment to Professor McGonagall and she said that you were a descendent of de Payens- and therefore might have some information the library did not."

Zivra made a mental note to have a talk with the Transfiguration professor about her discussions of other staff's personal lives with students. In the meantime, Ms. Granger looked much like she was wishing she had not asked such a question. Pushing thoughts Minerva McGonagall aside, she appraised the student next to her. "Quite possibly, however, some of my manuscripts are of such a nature and value that you would be able to handle them only in my presence, and others not at all." When Hermione began furiously nodding her head in assent Zivra smiled, a student honestly interested in learning was rare. Feeling slightly generous, she said "I was planning on setting an end of term paper for my class, around seven feet, I assume that your defence paper is of similar demands?"

"Around five and half feet."

Zivra rolled her eyes. Some professors had no clue how to handle students. "If you clear it with Professor Forasen, I will accept a joint paper on the subject."

Hermione smiled brightly in return and Zivra felt compelled to point out, "I personally would require that at least half of the essay be devoted to de Payens' involvement in the Crusades and the effect this had on the Middle Ages and later the Renaissance." When Hermione looked undeterred, Zivra simply nodded. Hermione opened her mouth to say something else but was drowned out by the roar of the crowd in the Quidditch stands. The game had already begun.

Shooing Granger off to the Gryffindor stands, Zivra mounted the steps to the faculty seats. At the top, she noticed that unless she wished to stand throughout the match, she was going to have to sit next to the previously discussed Defence professor- a professor who was currently sitting indecently close to a slightly annoyed Severus Snape. Zivra smirked as she eyed the couple, by her estimation, Professor Snape didn't stand a chance. She wished the other professor the best of the luck. She could barely stand to be around the man as it was, and really couldn't understand the mentality that was leading the blonde- but to each his or own, she supposed.

Just then, the man looked up to see Zivra making her way toward the empty space. He raised an eyebrow at her house scarf, but waited until a lull in the game to lean forward enough to ask with barely disguised bite, "Playing the favourite are we?"

Zivra raised an eyebrow in reply as she lifted the ends of the garment and shook it at him, "House loyalty dies hard."

"Don't I know it," the Defence professor- Desdemona, Zivra thought her name was- put in. She lifted the ends of her own silver and blue scarf, "Ravenclaw must be in my blood, I hear that may have a chance for the cup this year."

"Doubtful," Snape added, "that honour will go to Slytherin."

"One can always hope," the defence professor sighed.

Snape and Zivra exchanged a knowing look before Zivra responded with ill-disguised humour, "Perhaps Hufflepuff would have been your better choice- to hope when hope is futile is certainly not a Ravenclaw trait."

"And you think your way is better?" Desdemona replied.

"Yes," Snape defended, "we Slytherins are astute enough to resign ourselves to the inevitable, and not foster foolish fancies."

Zivra gave him a nod in acknowledgement of his statement before returning her attention to the game.

* * *

Dessie was growling under her breath. Who had thought that surrounding herself with Slytherins could be such a bad idea? The green and silver draped around the person next to her was maliciously taunting her, she just knew it. It didn't help that Snape, to her other side, was smugly watching the Slytherin chasers score goal after goal. Gods forbid that Slytherin actually win, the both of them would be insufferable. Not that she had any intention of spending more time than she needed in the company of the History of Magic professor, but she certainly intended to spend much more time than necessary in the company of the man sitting next to her.

Suddenly, a roar from the far side of the stands brought her eyes upwards. Shielding them from the bright sunlight, a red and gold blur could be seen in a steep dive on the far side of the field. The breath of the man next to her caught for a moment as a flash of green intersected the other blur, but the exultant cheer that soon rose from the mass of red and gold clad students across the stands belied his hope. Gryffindor had won. Realising she felt a bit smug about it, she quickly wiped the smile off her face and settled for an expression more suitable to the dourness of the occasion.

Snape was congratulating Professor McGonagall in clipped tones even while the other professor was accepting a bone-crushing hug from Hagrid.

"Perhaps next time Severus," the older witch said, obviously mouthing courtesies she had said many times over the past few years.

"Yes, perhaps." He was nearly to the stairwell before Dessie realised he had left her. As she hurried after him, her plan forefront on her mind, she could have sworn she saw the History of Magic professor give her a surreptitious wink.

How very odd.

* * *

Snape, stride lengthening as he wove his away around the mass of students celebrating (or bemoaning) the game's outcome, became aware of someone following him almost the moment he left the faculty's stand. Deliberately lengthening his stride, he could have sworn he heard a muttered curse as his shadow fought to keep up with him. He smiled- or at least made the curling of his lips that meant he had a rather devious, cruel, or simply mean-spirited idea on his mind. Nearly leaping up the stairs, he wound his way down to the dungeons. He was certain of it now. Not only was someone following them, but they were serious about. He turned a corner, then spun on one heel, lying in wait for the unfortunate individual who had chosen to infringe on his perfectly loathsome mood following the end of the Quidditch game.

Said individual's reaction to running headlong into the Potion's Master was certainly gratifying.

"Is there some reason you have chosen to stalk me this afternoon Mr. Malfoy, other than an obvious desire for a detention?" he drawled as Draco fought back a very unmanly squeak.

"Professor Snape," Draco mumbled as he pulled his robes in tightly around himself, "could I have a moment of your time?"

Snape rolled his eyes, "You may have any number of moments." The younger man was simply looking at him, "Was there a problem?"

"Might we go somewhere a bit less…?" Draco trailed off looking for the correct word.

With an ill-disguised grimace Snape led the way to his office. Once there, he brusquely motioned Draco toward his desk- a desk that lacked multiple chairs for a reason- before sliding behind it himself. Steepling his fingers in front of him, he snapped, "We're alone now, I hope this is worth my time."

"You're aware about this party my father is planning on Halloween?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who isn't invited?"

"Draco, I'm sure that this information seemed pertinent at the time, it is however-"

"The Lestrange side."

Snape's jaw snapped shut. "Continue."

Draco closed his eyes briefly before taking the plunge- and a chance, "This Christmas, Blaise, Dugald, Adrian and I are supposed to take the Mark at Malfoy Manor."

"_What_?" Snape stood so quickly his chair fell over behind him. "Sit," he growled. Draco sat without thinking, but was glad to find a chair behind him as he did so. "Alright," Snape was breathing deeply through his nostrils, "from the beginning Mr. Malfoy."

So Draco told him of meeting Blaise in the hallway and of the subsequent discussion. He also told of his own theories involving why four students were taking the Mark before graduation. When he had finished, Snape was staring off into a space just over his right shoulder.

"And you think your father may be making his move?"

"He's already been sentenced to Azkaban once, he got out of it, but he can't afford to waste time anymore." Draco stared his head of house in the eye without blinking, "The last battle is coming and my father plans to lead it."

"And why come to me with this information Mr. Malfoy?" Snape sighed.

"Because once the die are cast, I'm not sure my father is going to come out on top. I want to make sure you're behind me should they come up snake eyes."

Snape contemplated the young man in front of him for a long moment. "You know how it works Mr. Malfoy- a Slytherin cannot help another without at least three good reasons."

Draco pressed his face into his hands for a second before looking up, "One- I have been faithfully bringing you information since I was a first year, you're going to need that more and more as the end approaches."

Snape blinked twice, slowly, before replying, "Point conceded."

"Two- should the Dark Lord's plans go awry, you'll need someone with power to help you. Do you think my father would? I will."

Snape snarled before conceding that point.

"Three- Everyone knows you don't follow a faction because you don't agree with either the Lestranges or my father on how things should be happening. Neither do I. In fact, despite how little I know of your beliefs, experience and rumour tells me that we might have closer views than people might think. Given time, having me as someone to second you will pay off."

Snape regarded Draco silently before conceding. He gave the boy the reassurances he was seeking before sending him off to the common room. Once the door had closed firmly behind him, Snape leaned against the back, an ill-used and rusty laugh exploding from his chest. Imagine the only child of the Malfoy family- son of the Dark Lord's second in command- telling Severus Snape- spy and traitor- that they had views in common. The whole idea would be funny if it weren't so damn ironic.

"Bloody hell," Snape groaned, pressing the heel of his hands to his temples, "Why can't things be simple?"

* * *

Draco ignored the people lingering around the common room as he made his way toward his dorm. He absently shed his Quidditch robes and drew the curtains shut on his bed.

He'd planted the seed. His information said he was correct. His plans were in motion. It was only now to wait and see where events led.

Draco stayed awake a long while, staring into the deep black nothing.

_

* * *

A/N: The title of this chapter is from the musical _'Chess'_, the lyric is: _Everybody's playing the game/ but nobody's rules are the same/ nobody's on nobody's side  
_Fitting, I thought, and a theme that will continue throughout. _


	10. Look Before You Leap

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Ten: Look Before You Leap **

_Assistant my ass. _Snape muttered as he swept through the halls.

"Ten points from Hufflepuff for stomping about Mr. Graden," he snapped.

_I am a Potions _Master_, one of two dozen left in the world, and the conniving old man thinks I need an _assistant

"Ten points from Gryffindor for smiling too widely. Another five for talking back to a professor."

_As if I weren't the holder of over a hundred potions patents, as if I weren't the youngest Potions Master in the past three centuries, as if that weren't enough for that meddling monster, sitting up in his office and running- no, scratch that, _ruining_- our lives. _

"Fifteen point, Mr. Goyle, for making faces."

_And why on earth would he pick someone like-_

"Why hello Severus. I see you're in a chipper mood this afternoon."

"_You_," he snarled.

She seemed slightly taken aback, "Yes, me. Is there a problem?" The self-satisfied grin on her face meant she already knew the answer to that.

"How did you do it?"

"Do what Severus?"

"You do not have permission to call me that. I am Professor Snape to you." He drew in a deep breath, his chest was heaving and he thought he might be in imminent danger of hyperventilating. "How did you get Albus to agree to such a preposterous scheme?"

"Ah, I see… actually, no, I really _don't_ see what the problem is _Professor _Snape. The Headmaster mentioned you were a bit taxed at the moment and since I have some experience with potions, I offered my services. He seemed to think you'd be overjoyed at the thought." Actually, that wasn't exactly how it happened, she had led Dumbledore into volunteering her to work on some mysterious special project with Snape (or perhaps Dumbledore had led her- with that man, one could never be sure). But Desdemona would eat nails before admitting to _that_.

Snape's eyes narrowed on her, he didn't believe a word of it. "I suppose you have some sort of qualification to give the Headmaster such faith in your abilities?"

"I specialised in potions as my precursor to Auror training."

That took Snape down a peg for moment. "You're a certified Auror? Why aren't you out there fighting the Dark Lord?"

Desdemona blushed, "I never finished, if you must know. Now can we talk about this project Dumbledore was going on about? All I recall is that it was for another professor here."

Snape snorted. Never finished Auror training, how embarrassing that must be for her. How simply appalling. How thoroughly shameful. How… positively delightful. His day was looking better already. And as his anger at sharing his lab space with yet _another_ human being was fading, the fact that this would give him ample opportunity to both learn about Professor Forasen's loyalties and to take her up on her still standing offer (should the occasion arise of course) began to seem quite a bit more appealing than it first had.

But only a bit.

"Yes, it is. And since we will be working together, I suppose it is only reasonable I tell you what I will be expecting of you." Before she could make what was surely some comment about him being reasonable, he launched into the crux of the issue. "You will arrive at my private labs at eight pm every weeknight beginning with tonight. You will do absolutely no theoretical or practical work until you can prove to me you have better than the slightest idea you know what you're doing. Instead, since you were so kind to _offer your services_ to me, you'll spend tonight cleaning the cauldrons I've already used but have yet to have time to clean myself."

Desdemona's mouth was hanging open by the time he finished. "But- but surely a house elf or even a charm would take care of that?" she stammered out.

"Why Ms. Forasen, I thought you said you had specialised in potions before attempting to become an Auror?" Snape drawled unpleasantly, watching her eye twitch at his deliberate mention of her failings, he was quite enjoying himself by this point. "Surely you know then that for most work in potions, the cauldron itself cannot retain even a trace element of previous experimentation. The slightest speck of residue can cause a chain reaction of the most dire sort. Now, while I don't accuse you of intentionally putting both myself and another member of staff at risk," he held up a hand at her sounds of protest, "surely you must then realise that only specialised hand cleaning will do, which categorically rules out a charm. And I don't trust my cauldrons to just any house elf. No, no, I'm afraid my standards are quite high when it comes to the quality of my work."

Desdemona translated this to mean she could expect to wash the cauldrons not once, but many times over until he was satisfied that not a speck of anything other than air remained in it.

"I'm sure you'll come to be adequate at this job, if that is what's worrying you."

Dessie opened her mouth to argue, but closed it when she realised that there wasn't a single argument she has that would change his mind. Instead she said "I will see you at eight Professor Snape."

* * *

"Why that no good, scheming, evil, maniacal, _odious_ man!"

Dessie realised she was talking to herself. She realised she was doing this in a public hallway. She also realised that the passing student thought she was out of her mind. But that didn't stop her from snapping, "Twenty points from Ravenclaw for not minding your own business."

At least it made her feel a little better.

She swept into her class of fifth years in a mood that could only be described as significantly less than pleasant. "Your OWLs are in less than eight months, and you are one and all woefully ill-prepared." With a wave of her wand, the classroom full of desks reverted to the form it had taken for her upper year students. A long platform on one wall, cushioning charm on the floor, and no desks.

"Gryffindors to my right, Ravenclaws to my left."

She counted each group off and then paired them. "You're working with _expelliarmus_, defend yourselves as you wish. Please keep things within school rules and try not to kill each other."

She stormed into her office and slammed the door behind her. The idea was deceptively simple: anyone left standing at the end of class got an 'O' for the day.

Her fingers flitted over the titles on her book shelf. _Rozencrantz Index of Demon and Succubae? _No, although a succubus would be rather funny when it was all said and done. _Creative Curses to Stun Your Friends? _Nowhere near unpleasant enough. _A Cross-Analytical Framework for Disembowelment and Dismemberment? _Held promise, but she wanted something nastier, and also preferably something that wouldn't get her fired.

She heard a muffled thud against her door and decided that it was unlikely anyone would be passing with full marks that day.

Smiling to herself, she pulled her dog-eared copy of _1000 Uncounterable Hexes._ Severus Snape was going to rue the day he crossed swords with her.

It was hours later when Dessie finally emerged for dinner. She had quickly nixed the idea of hexing the potions master- the underlying supposition here being that she would likely get fired for it. Instead, she decided that she would find some other way of making him pay for what had all the evidence of being a series of nights she would live to regret volunteering herself for.

He wouldn't speak to her throughout the entirety of dinner that evening, and Dessie didn't say anything to him either, instead, she left her chair at ten minutes to eight and politely asked a house elf the way to Snape's private labs. Once there, she leaned negligently against the wall and waited for the potions master to show himself. The portraits on the walls around her seemed to be mostly of hunting scenes or of animals and people being decapitated, disembowelled, or otherwise injured in some way.

"How cheerful," she murmured as she saw him approach.

He raised a sardonic eyebrow at her, but gave the portrait his password rather than commenting.

"Glumbumble?" she asked as they entered, "The cure for alihotsy?"

Snape paused near a work bench that held various vials of dark red liquid that Dessie thought might be blood. "If that is the only thing you learned during your potions training, than you might as well leave now as you will be of no use to me whatsoever."

She held up her hands in mock surrender, "Sorry, just thinking out loud."

"Please refrain. The cauldrons are in the corner over there, you will find the appropriate cleaning equipment in the next room." When she didn't move, he dismissively gestured at her, "Well, have at it then."

She wandered away muttering darkly to herself, leaving Snape with a small smile on his normally sombre features.

Four hours later, Snape's small smile was in eminent danger of becoming a full-blown grin. He had often wondered what lead people to enjoy themselves at the expense of others around them- having often been on the receiving end of such humour. This night, his questions were answered.

She was on her second cauldron.

Oh, she had cleaned nearly four before he had checked on the adequacy of her work. And while the cauldrons would have ordinarily been deemed suitable for regular classroom work, they did not measure up to his exacting standards for his private and professional usage. He had, of course, told her as much. And she, with all the timing and conditioning of one of Pavlov's dogs, immediately threw a fit.

"What? There isn't a speck of so much as a thought of grime left in that thing." Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her wild gesticulations were causing suds to fly from her soapy forearms and hands.

"Ms. Forasen," Snape drawled, raising one hand to wipe away the offending substance that had just been flung into face, "I fail to see where the issue lies here."

"Fail to see?" she spluttered at him, "You overgrown bat! You insufferable bastard! You-"

"Perhaps you should simply rewash these," he drawled, titling one of the 'clean' cauldrons over with the toe of his boot.

Her mouth snapped shut and her eyes narrowed. Her chest was heaving and Snape had no compunction with watching it do so. It was quite a nice sight actually.

"I'll wash you bloody cauldrons," she muttered much to his surprise. He had been half-expecting her to either curse him into next week, or attack him physically. He had to admit that the idea of restraining a buxom squirming blonde stirred his blood.

_It's been far too long for you old boy_.

_Don't I know it_.

She was still muttering darkly to herself, but she had sat back down and was buried shoulder deep in another cauldron. He could still catch some words. 'Git', 'ass', and 'odious' seemed to be the most popular although he nearly took exception to 'goat sodomiser'. That was really below the belt.

That had been over two hours ago, and he hadn't heard a peep out of her since. Casting a preservation charm on the concoction he was currently working on, Snape left his private laboratory for his nightly patrol- and then bed. Eventually, she would notice he had gone.

Eventually.


	11. No Knot Unties Itself

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

_

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven: No Knot Unties Itself **

Zivra groaned, burying her face in her arms. Why now? Why here? Why oh why did Dumbledore insist on her teaching _this_ subject? There had to be a way to get around it. Some loophole in his instructions that she could slip through and so teach something else entirely. She leafed through her notes, grabbing a random book from her floor and desperately searching for a phrase that sounded like her orders.

Nothing.

She checked her _Minor Histories of Inconsequential Beasts_. Perhaps she could get away with teaching the Great Louse Wars of September 8, 1873- September 15, 1873 that had lasted for fourteen entire louse generations. Somehow, she doubted it.

Or shelving units. That was it, an entire week's worth of lessons based on shelving units around the home. Perfect. But not.

Maybe the underground black-market trade in mouse pelts? A big 'X' across that one as well.

There was nothing else for it, she was actually going to have to teach what Dumbledore wanted. Durmstrang had never required such an abominable subject, it wasn't on the history NEWTs- although it might be on the Care of Magical Creatures one. But at Hogwarts, it was apparently required anyway. The history of _house elves_.

She nearly cried at the thought. She _hated_ house elves.

This was no passing temper either, she wasn't prone to those. She _detested_ house elves, the whole lot of them. She was nauseated by the idea that they cooked her meals and refused them access to her chambers, preferring rather to clean them herself- which was part of the reason they were in such a constant state of untidiness. But rather that than thought of one of those _creatures_ wandering about her private quarters causing Merlin only knew what damage. They were a necessary evil in buildings like the one she was in, but she still avoided them unless she had absolutely no other choice.

She swallowed hard. She couldn't do it. Surely if she told Dumbledore her reasons, he would understand. Yes, she would calmly approach him and explain… well, nix the calmly, that was impossible whenever this particular subject came up, but she could explain in slight hysterics. She could feel her breathing coming faster already. That would be great, hyperventilating in her own quarters, no one around to rescue her. She forced herself to take long deep breaths. The tears prickling the backs of her eyelids weren't helping. Why did it always have to be this way? Would it never stop?

She sighed and put quill to parchment, if she was going to do this, she might as well do it right. No would blame _her_ for presenting a biased history.

* * *

Hermione blinked a couple of times. Then she blinked again. She stared at the parchment where she had mechanically been taking notes. Nope, it was still there, in black and beige, the undeniable proof that house elves were the cause of every major catastrophe from the fall of Rome to the JFK assassination to the reason why cranberry juice could not be found in France. 

Who knew?

She shook her head. No, this couldn't be right. It had to be wrong, fiction, created by evil monsters. And her poor professor had been duped into believing it. She raised her hand; she was but the first of many.

"Yes Mr. Goyle?" Professor Callistas had not been at Hogwarts long enough to be shocked by this, but the remainder of the class certainly was. In their memory, Gregory Goyle had never raised his hand to ask a question. "Why would the house elves mastermind the Holocaust? They didn't have a reason… did they?"

"You wouldn't think so, no. Ms. Bones?"

"I don't understand, how did they manage to cause the Boer War without alerting any Muggles or wizards as to what they were doing?"

"Oh, they're crafty little creatures, I'll give them that. Ms Granger?"

"How could house elves do _any_ of this when they're bound to a certain wizarding family?"

"I'm afraid you're not giving them their due Ms Granger. Was there something else Ms Granger?"

"Where is the proof of any of this?"

"I think if you'll check your course syllabus, there are many reputable books that cover these exact subjects. Mr. McMillan?"

Hermione quit listening. Her history of magic professor was nuts. Officially, undeniably, call out the men in white coats and get a straight-jacket because you're not sane anymore, _nuts_.

And she had seemed to be doing so well too. No trying to kill Harry or practicing unforgivables on the associated student body. Not a ministry sycophant. Hermione sighed. Why couldn't they have a normal teacher for once?

Out of morbid curiosity, she checked the syllabus; she would stake her life that none of these books had been on there before today, and for very good reason. The additions were ludicrous. Surely, an established academic would not be getting her information from _Elvis went HOME… and other PHENOMENON the MINISTRY doesn't want YOU to KNOW about._ Hermione shuddered at the random gratuitous use of capitals.

When class was dismissed, Hermione immediately went to McGonagall's office. If a member of staff was going to teach such vicious lies, then someone needed to know about it. Hermione sat in the proffered chair before beginning, "Professor, I think there's something wrong with Professor Callistas."

She was met with, "What on earth are you talking about?"

So Hermione told her, leaving out nothing. She even showed her the diagram Professor Callistas had had them copy down- complete with fangs, beady red eyes and a machete. By the end, Hermione was shaking all the way to the tip of her SPEW badge.

McGonagall's face showed no reaction to the young girls' words. "Ms. Granger, are you sure of this?" Hermione nodded vehemently. "I shall take this up with the Headmaster, don't you worry." She held out a hand and Hermione gave her Head of House her notes.

"Professor?" she asked as she left.

"Yes Ms. Granger?"

"It's not… it's not _true_ is it?"

"What do you think Ms. Granger?"

Hermione stared at McGonagall for a long moment before shaking her head. "It can't be."

"Sometimes, our own beliefs are our best proof. Have a good day Ms. Granger."

Hermione left, but unease had already settled in the pit of her stomach. And she had a feeling it would not be going away anytime soon.

* * *

"Albus, have you any idea of what tripe that new history professor of yours has been unloading on the sixth years?" 

"Well no, Minerva, not being a sixth year myself, I'd rather think I haven't."

She rolled her eyes. "You know exactly what I mean."

"And what exactly is your meaning?"

"This!" She shoved the parchment she was carrying under his nose. "This rotten excuse for academia she's been preaching about house elves."

Dumbledore examined the parchment for a while before replying. "I see she's left off the Gujarati text, it is quite informative on this subject."

"Albus!"

"What? You and I are both perfectly aware that there are varied opinions about the nature of house elves. Simply because Zivra's views are a bit to the side of the mainstream…"

"A bit?" Minerva riffled through the papers to the diagram. She stabbed a long finger down onto it. "He's holding a machete for Merlin's sake!"

She saw the twinkle in his eyes as he answered, "I rather thought it was a meat cleaver, a rather common instrument for a house elf working in the gardens." She spluttered in return, at a loss for words. Dumbledore smiled at her. "I will discuss Professor Callistas' views with her if it would ease your mind Minerva. Perhaps it _would_ be better for us all if she presented a less… colourful account."

She sniffed the air, a look of superiority on her face. "See that you do."

* * *

"You asked to see me Headmaster?" 

Dumbledore looked up, "Ah yes, do come in, lemon drop?"

"No thank you." Callistas waved his offer aside. They sat in silence for a moment before she broke it, "Is there a problem?"

Dumbledore sighed, "I'm afraid there is." He slid Hermione Granger's notes across the desk toward her. "Do these look familiar?"

"No." At his raised eyebrow she clarified, "I mean to say, I recognise the subject matter from the class I taught today, but if you are asking me to whom they belong, I must say I have no idea."

"It is precisely the subject matter I wish to discuss with you Professor."

"Now Headmaster," she started in a huff, "it was you decision for me to teach this topic, I had no desire to do so, whatsoever. If you're going to take me to task over it, perhaps you should pass judgement on yourself first."

Dumbledore regarded her calmly from beneath lowered brows. "It is not the subject itself that has given me pause, but rather the way in which it is being presented. Professor, are you familiar with the term 'professional detachment'?"

The woman across from him looked sullen. "Yes."

"Have you considered practising it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked you if you had considered practising professional detachment in your teaching."

Her back was ramrod straight, and Dumbledore thought he saw her teeth clench. "I apologise Headmaster."

When she didn't continue, he was forced to sigh. "Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

"What more is there? I fully understand that you are disappointed by some fault in my teaching method, and I apologise for your having to become involved without it resolving itself naturally. Now if you don't mind, I have some work to get done before the meeting this evening." She stood to leave.

"Sit down Professor." His voice brokered no argument, and so she sat. He considered her over his spectacles for a long minute. "When I hired you, I was told you were the best teacher in your field. Nothing before this day has led me to believe otherwise. Is there something, perhaps about this subject in particular? Something that you may wish to speak to me about?"

Callistas' face was impassive. "No."

"Something else then?"

"No."

Dumbledore sighed, "I cannot force confessions from you. You are free to leave."

She stood and was nearly gone before his voice stopped her again. "Oh, and Professor?"

"Yes?"

"I expect you to cover this topic with your class again, in a more partial way this time."

She bowed her head, "Yes Headmaster."

* * *

Beneath her cool exterior, Zivra was fuming. It was hours later, the end of a staff meeting, and she was gouging strips from the arms of her chair with her fingernails. Despite knowing she was in the wrong, she was ready to take everyone in the room to task over it. It wasn't her fault she had had bad experiences with house elves and therefore hated them with the fiery and intense passion of a thousand burning suns. 

It wasn't her fault that the mere thought of them made her want to cry, nevertheless speaking of them...

It wasn't her fault…

She had been staring into space for an uncertain amount of time before she realised the staff meeting was over, and that Severus Snape was making every effort to get her attention short of tipping her out of her chair. And he looked ready to resort to that.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Ah, I see you are still in the land of the living," the man next to her said. "In that case, would you care to accompany me to my laboratory I have some tests I would like to run about this… problem of yours."

Zivra wondered at his evasion, but looked up to noticed the Defence professor hovering behind his right shoulder. She raised an eyebrow at him.

He glanced over his shoulder before rolling his eyes, "My…assistant."

Zivra suppressed a smile as she followed him from the room, tailed by the Defense teacher.


	12. Ensnare the Senses

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any member of the Harry Potter universe. They belong to the estimable JK Rowling and I am infinitely grateful for her letting us borrow them to play with a bit._

**

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Ensnare the Senses **

Zivra covered her mouth with one hand as they entered. "Can't you fumigate or something?" she coughed.

Snape stared at her from beneath lowered brows for a long moment before replying. "Potions require a delicate balance in order to brew properly. I cannot risk their stability for your fragile constitution."

Zivra rolled her eyes, "Considering it's my fragile constitution you're trying to help here, one would think you could make an exception."

He ignored her, his eyes scanning the workplace. "Miss Forasen, what on earth have you done with my notes?"

Desdemona slipped past her and made her way over to a back table. "I put them off to the side," she said, holding up the offending object.

"And why would you do that?"

"Because you nearly destroyed them the last time you set your eyebrows on fire."

Zivra suppressed her laughter. Unfortunately, it escaped in the guise of an ungainly snort. Which of course drew Snape's attention to her.

"Make yourself as comfortable as possible, I would personally suggest removing your outer robes. We could have a very long evening ahead of us."

Shrugging, Zivra slipped out of her robes. She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse to her elbows, then as an afterthought unbuttoned the neck. Probably further than she needed, but his condescending looks were annoying her. At his sardonic expression, she defended herself. "You said make yourself comfortable."

She thought she saw him roll his eyes as he issued instructions to the DADA teacher. For her part, Desdemona was wandering around the office, collecting vials and parchment, completely oblivious to the Potions Master's insistence that she was taking too long.

_Bravo, my girl_, Zivra thought to herself. _Don't take anything from that overbearing bat if you don't have to_.

Once Snape was satisfied with the array of instruments and implements in front of him, he gestured for his assistant to pick up her parchment and quill. Next he gestured Zivra into a large chair. He rolled his sleeves up before beginning his speech. "October twentieth nineteen hundred and ninety six. First test on runespoor victim, aged…" he faltered.

Zivra rolled her eyes, "Thirty-four." She smiled as she saw Desdemona's quill slip at the words 'runespoor victim'. It really wasn't a common ailment.

"Aged thirty-four, has been taking anti-venom concoction 'Alchemedes X' for twelve years. Administering 'Trial 1', one hundred milligrams, by injection." Snape then picked up a large syringe from the table next to him.

"Excuse me, injection?" Zivra held up her hands in front of her, "I don't like needles."

"Then I suggest you don't watch."

"You're not sticking that thing in my arm."

"You're right I'm not." Before Zivra could breathe a sigh of relief, he clarified, "I'm going to need to inject this directly into your heart."

"_What?_" Zivra nearly bolted from her chair, only Snape's hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Professor Forasen, I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself-"

"You'd better bloody well make the time, and how can you not have it? I'm still feeling fine, we have plenty of time. You're not getting that thing anywhere-"

"Professor you're hysterical-"

"I am _not_."

"Rest assured that this is the best way to administer this particular-"

"If it's the best way, then there must be a worst way. Do it the worst way."

"Professor-"

"Have you even tested that?"

"I have performed all of the usual trials."

"The usual-?"

"And I assure you that it is perfectly safe."

"What kind of trials?"

"The standard kind." He lifted the syringe, one hand still holding her down by the shoulder.

"Get away from me with that thing."

"If you would just hold still this could be over with…" She could tell his teeth were gritted in frustration. She didn't care.

"I'm not going to hold still so you can-" Her words were cut off as Snape lunged forward, plunging the needle nearly into the centre of her chest. Several inches of it in fact. As she watched his long fingers press down on the pump she heard herself mumble, "You bastard," before she lost consciousness.

* * *

"You killed her." 

"Be quiet girl. I most assuredly did not."

Desdemona regarded the slumped history professor for a moment without reply. She certainly looked dead. Snape picked up the woman's wrist, turning it over so her forearm was upward, then pressing two fingers to the inside.

"Pulse is steady."

Desdemona made a note of it.

He pried her eyelids open, "Pupils dilated, but unresponsive."

Desdemona made a note of it.

He placed his fingers to her nose next. After a moment, her lips parted, "Breathing normal."

Desdemona made a note of it. Her hands wee shaking. The sight of the women with a syringe as big around as her wrist in her chest was upsetting her.

Snape was reaching for some instrument when she asked, "Um professor?"

"What?" was his terse reply.

"Um, can you take that out?"

He turned to her, "What?"

She gestured and he turned towards the motion. "_That_."

"Oh, if it's really bothering you I suppose I..." At her frantic nod, he reached out and with a twist of one hand and a flick of his wand, the needle was out with no evidence of its passage. He rolled his eyes.

Dessie breathed a sigh a relief.

"Um Severus?" she ventured after a few moments.

"What is it now?" he snapped, in the middle of taking a blood sample from his unconscious victim… patient.

"She's twitching."

Snape's eyes followed hers to Zivra's fingers which were indeed twitching.

"Make a note of it," he instructed, reaching for a new instrument. With one hand he finished taking blood, and with the other he slipped a set of rings, linked by a chain, onto the hand that was twitching. The fingers stopped.

Dessie breathed a sigh of relief.

Snape was fiddling with a potion, muttering to himself as he contemplated the colour of the steam and the level of the flame.

"How long will she be out for?"

He glanced back over his shoulder, "Likely the remainder of the night. _Thank Merlin_." He muttered the last part, but Dessie heard him anyway.

She made a noise that might have been assent.

* * *

"So what are you doing on Halloween?" 

Snape paused only momentarily in his brewing. This wasn't the first time the wench had tried this tactic. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd been asked what he was doing for dinner, or whether he was going to Hogsmede that weekend, or any number of other trivial facts that she had every intention of exploiting. But to what ends?

He made a mental note that if Professor Callistas was the other Death Eater at Hogwarts, then she kept her Mark under a very strong glamour. His quickly murmured counterspell had had no effect on her. If he'd had more time- and no audience- he could have done more. That brought him back to the question at hand.

"I have received invitation to be elsewhere."

"Malfoy Manor?"

His narrowed eyes flew to hers. "What makes you ask that?"

"Dearest Lucius is throwing a party, I simply assumed it was the one you spoke of."

"Dearest Lucius?" He hadn't missed the note of irony in her voice.

She rolled her eyes, "Well, is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Don't be obtuse, is it Lucius' party?"

What was the harm in telling her? "Yes."

"Perfect. I'll see you there then." She set the parchment she was holding down as she rose, "Do you need me still?"

He shook his head and she left without another word.

That had _not_ gone according to plan.


End file.
